


Displacement

by grappled



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grappled/pseuds/grappled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Myka Bering and Helena Wells are in France when it falls to the Germans in 1939. Three years later their paths cross for the first time when new recruits to the Special Operations Executive (SOE) are sent for training at a remote Manor House in the English countryside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> On schedule, here is the start of a new fic - as you'll have gathered, this is an historical AU, and as such it's a little bit daunting. So, thanks to those who have encouraged me to go for it (I think!).
> 
> I am aiming for accuracy, while trying not to become too obsessed, we shall see how that goes. As for language, assume they are speaking in the language for that locale, unless stated otherwise. I'll try to reference the odd interesting or important fact in notes, not always, but there's definitely a few at the end of the first instalment. After this, we'll be jumping forward a few years to when our protagonists actually meet. There will be a few mostly minor OC's in this fic, btw.

In 1927, when Myka Bering was 12 years old, the headmaster of her school returned after summer break married to the prettiest woman she had ever laid eyes on. Having travelled from France with her family as a child, first to Quebec and then Missouri; Madame Charlotte was softly spoken, with dark hair that curled up at the tips, hazel eyes and expressive hands. She was employed by the college for a time, teaching those young men and women privileged enough to attend, but also offering extra curricular French lessons at her husband's school. 

Myka begged her father to allow her to attend. Professor Bering was a scholarly writer who taught at the same college - a stern but practical man, he saw the value in his daughter acquiring a new language.

"It is a big commitment, Myka, you must see it through. It will reflect badly on myself and your mother if you do not." 

He peered at her over the top of half-moon spectacles, and she nodded her head determinedly, fighting to suppress a giddy smile. It was usually such a battle to win permission for a change that her father had not instigated. He examined her demeanor closely for a long moment before returning his gaze to the papers on his desk, her cue to leave. She held her glee inside until she was on the porch, then she jumped down and ran across two fields to the nearest house - where her best friend lived. Pete laughed as she shared the news, observing that only she would be so happy about having _more_ lessons. Then his sixteen year old self came to the fore, as he nudged her elbow and winked.

“Now that I think about it, I would not complain about extra tuition from _her_!”

Myka had punched him in the arm for that. 

Madame Charlotte was a special teacher, so classes hardly felt like lessons at all. Myka looked up to her, drank in her tales of a childhood in Europe, and beamed when she earnt sincere praise and the _’darling’_ that came with it. 

Myka’s father would call her into his office regularly to enquire after her progress at school, even though he received termly reports from her teachers. Never overt in his praise, instead always pushing her to be better, Myka was immensely proud when he suggested she was worthy of continuing her education beyond high school. In 1933, 17 year old Myka Bering started attending Colorado Springs College to continue her French studies, take up German, and study literature. Formed in 1874 as a coeducational institution, the college was situated to the south of the wealthy Old North End, and young people from that district and further afield would attend. Myka’s father made a good living, but her mother’s family were well respected in the railway industry and had been present at the formation of the town - money would never have been the barrier to her education.

Though the depression had hit hard and there were less students on campus, Myka felt in the main removed from the strife of families elsewhere in Colorado; and she was not unmoved by the plight of others - taking part in food and fund drives to provide poor relief. She was not a social animal, but still attended occasional dances, and joined a number of sororities. Myka had few true friends who she would confide in. She didn’t have a close bond with her younger sister Tracy, whose flighty nature took her into very different circles. Myka’s goals in life did not revolve around marrying into a good family and achieving high social status. 

Though older, Pete remained a firm constant, while the familiar faces she met through the small French community were who she felt most comfortable with. Former pupils of Madame Charlotte kept up a tradition of monthly gatherings which evolved into outings, and the sharing of each other’s passions - music, drawing, or even skiing. Myka had also taken on some teaching duties with the young pupils at her former school. It was close to the end of her second year at college when two things happened to tilt her world on it's axis. 

Pete, who was by then 22, enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force. As an enthusiastic young teen years earlier, he’d been taken by his mother and father to see the newly opened Colorado Springs Municipal Airport. Examining the planes and their engines up close, a wide eyed Pete had passionately declared he was going to be a pilot. He and Myka had raced through the fields with aeroplane arms, laughing wildly in the afternoon sun. He was her big brother in spirit, so when he left she had embraced him with a trembling lip and glassy eyes as he whispered a promise to write often. 

At the close of the same year, Madame Charlotte, who by then had a young daughter, died in childbirth - devastating her husband and the community that had come to love her. Myka was bereft, she had lost the two most important, inspiring people in her life, yet her own family struggled to understand her grief. Wishing to express her loss adequately, Myka put pen to paper before posting a heartfelt letter through the headmaster's door one bitterly cold Saturday. One week later, he arrived at their family home to thank Myka and ask permission for a friend to print it in the Gazette, a tribute of sorts. That was the bittersweet beginning of her path into journalism - when the progressive editor had recognised potential, unconcerned by her age and gender. 

“Hell, did you know this paper had a _female_ sporting reporter many years ago? A female reporting on the World Series, imagine that!” and he’d winked at her encouragingly as he puffed on a tobacco stained pipe. 

Myka began writing a column for young people, and occasional feature pieces on world events. When she was mid way through her final year she was offered a permanent position, to start from the month she completed college. Her father had not been so enamoured of the opportunity, and Myka knew it was partly due to his mistrust of the press, but also because it took her away from the path he envisioned her following. 

"Father, I can bring news to the masses, educating people about the world around us," she’d argued. 

He'd looked at her over the very same half moon glasses, shook his head ruefully. She had teared up at his next words.

"Damn French lessons,"

He knew her world view stemmed not just from college, but from many hours spent with immigrant families in the community.

"It is the thing I’m most grateful for. Please don't be disappointed in what I do, father." 

"I am disappointed you will not be following my path into teaching, Myka.”

She knew that his unfulfilled wish for a son was a source of regret, her very name was a reflection of that, but he had still wanted Myka and her sister to be educated. It’s his inherent belief in the value of knowledge that she thinks made him pause for thought, glance at her name printed in the Gazette, then acquiesce. It wouldn’t sound like approval to another ear, but Myka knew it was the best she could hope for.

"Teaching will always be open to you, once you realise you’ve made an error."

"Yes, father," she'd said and left it at that, feeling as giddy as her 12 year old self. It didn’t matter that he was most likely looking forward to being proved right in the end.

When Myka was 21 years old, a new reporter joined the staff at the paper. Sam Martino was a few years older, an attractive batchelor who had moved back to Colorado Springs following a university education in Washington. Myka knew of his family, his father was a politician and his mother was a friend of Jean Bering. She vaguely remembered the sporty blond blue eyed boy from school, but he had never held a particular space in her memory. So when Sam Martino, all charm and smiles, had offered to walk conscientious, intelligent, unglamorous Myka home, the office gossips - men and women alike - had been surprised. 

She reluctantly allowed him to court her, not wishing to be weighed down with expectations. But he was kind, made her laugh and had a surprisingly modern view of the world. He didn't expect her to fall at his feet, he often expressed admiration for her writing, her tenacity and independence, her beauty. Myka laughed at this, but secretly was thrilled at his acceptance of her less than traditional ambitions. Eighteen months later, when he broached the topic of marriage, she faltered. 

"Oh Sam, I feel much too young still," she said, in the knowledge that most women her age were already married, or on that path. "I know there is a lot more for me to explore out there, and marriage would feel like..."

"A ball and chain?" he laughed softly, looking down at their joined hands as they stood by the fence surrounding his father's property. 

"Like missing the chance to experience life, before..." she said, her eyes darting up to the sky, "...before settling down."

He considered her for a moment, then appeared to make a decision. 

"There is a reason I have asked now, other than the obvious, Myka," a faint redness coloured both their faces. "I’ve an opportunity to work in the diplomatic office abroad," he looked away briefly, "It's a position I can't pass up on..."

"Oh," Myka exhaled, a little ashamed that her predominant feeling was not of sadness at Sam’s departure, but jealousy of his chance to see foreign shores. He continued to speak, his words drifting over her until she felt her fingers being lightly squeezed. Sam was eager, but his face was tinged with concern. 

"Myka...? Were you listening, what do you think to that?" 

"I'm sorry Sam, I was lost in thought. Tell me again?" 

He smiled hopefully, "I said - I had hoped to take you to France as my wife, but I may be able to get you a junior position in the service, secretarial work and so on...it would be a start. I have a good friend in the Associated Press, you know?" 

Myka was speechless, here Sam was, offering her the chance to go to _France_ of all places, despite his pride being a little dented at her refusal. They both understood that marriage would come eventually, but to go on an adventure together beforehand, it was perfect.

Sam was grinning, "I take it by your expression you like that idea?"

She laughed, "Yes, oh yes I do!" 

So it was that when war in Europe broke out in 1939, Myka had been living and working in France for almost a year. 

\---

It started like any other day for Helena. She was roused from the bed in her grandparent’s Paris home by the smell of baking, and so tiptoed down creaking stairs wrapped up against the early morning chill. Her grandmother was seated as always at the table, strong coffee cradled in one hand, chewed pencil stub in the other, hovering over a crossword puzzle from the previous day’s newspaper. 

“Morning, mémère,” she whispered, lightly patting her grandmother’s shoulder as she passed. “May I?” she asked, as she always did.

“Of course, Helena, mon trésor,” came the usual reply.

Helena tore into the still warm bread where it sat on a wooden block, then smothered it with butter from a cracked ceramic dish. Her grandmother squinted up with curious dark eyes which, though crinkled around the edges, had lost none of their sparkle, 

“You should try to sleep longer, Helena, rest that brain of yours,” she chuckles. 

It’s a sound and a familiar tease from Helena’s childhood, when they’d lived in France for a while with her mother’s family before her English father landed a government role. Helena and her elder brother Charles soon found themselves relocated to just an hour from the bustle of London. 

“Monsieur Cockerel never has a day off!” Helena sighs, “I have been in the habit for a long time, and besides, I have plans for today.”

Her grandmother gives her a sly look, “Ah, Monsieur Allard has you rising early, not Monsieur Cockerel?!” 

Helena feels her cheeks go warm, “Mémère!”. 

Her wily grandmother misses nothing, and in her twenty-seven years Helena had yet to fool her once. Her granddaughter’s new found enthusiasm for Parisian museums and galleries has not gone unnoticed. Serge Allard is a designer at the automobile factory where Helena’s grandfather oversees engineering and design. Since she’d started work there, in part due to her pépère’s standing and influence, Helena Wells had been required to prove herself worthy thrice over in the male dominated field, and not least with Serge. A few years younger than Helena, he was confident to the point of arrogance, and she supposed she saw a little of herself in him. They’d clashed frequently, but then, in the midst of an argument over a new prototype, he’d stopped suddenly and flushed, stuttered, then walked out. The following day, he indirectly apologised - teasing her about being correct _for once_ \- then promptly asked her out to dinner. He was attractive with unruly brown hair and a contrastingly neat moustache, green eyes and a tendency to appear a little rough around the edges due to long hours at work. She’d surprised herself and accepted, deciding she was due a little fun, and, well, she did enjoy their arguments. 

This morning, near the beginning of June 1940, it's a month into their tentative relationship, and they are going for a late lunch before he takes her to meet his sister’s family. She tells herself she isn't nervous, but changes her outfit several times before walking to the station to join the throng of train passengers. 

It is a strange existence, living in a country at war for six months yet revelling in the freedom to express her talent at work, supported by her family. The protection of her passport and fluency in the language won’t suffice for much longer, but right now it is easy to feel removed from her life back home. She oftens thinks of her reckless yet noble brother. Thanks to his last correspondence, she knows he enlisted, and she can only hope he was not sent over to France. The British Army is in the last throws of resistance. Reports from the last few days confirm there are beach evacuations in the North, and here she is, sat on the train looking forward to a cafe date in central Paris.

Helena emerges from the Montparnasse Metro under cloudy blue sky at almost half past one. She’s walking at a brisk pace along the Rue de Rennes when the loud drawn out wail of an air-raid siren pierces the air. It doesn’t stop, and she curses loudly before turning on her heels into a jog back to the Metro. Of course, many people follow the same instinct, and as the low drone of aircraft begins its distant ominous hum, she’s jostled in the panicked rush of bodies. She stumbles, catching herself against a set of iron railings, the breath pushed from her lungs. She glances up and there’s girl huddled in the doorway of a house, no more than 8 years old, clutching teddy close to her chest, wide eyed and trembling. 

Without thought Helena steps up and bangs on the door, “Where are your parents?”

“I lost them,” the girl cries, and Helena realises this doorstep is merely a convenient escape. She scans the road from her vantage point, but frustratingly can't distinguish frantic looking parents from the crowd.

Making a decision, she holds out her hand. “You can’t stay here, let's get underground and we’ll find them afterwards.”

The girl hesitates, but the brittle noise of anti-aircraft guns crackles close by, and she jumps up, “Promise?” she stutters. Helena gives her a firm nod before dragging her along and down into the subterranean shelter that may prove their saviour or their final resting place. 

They endure for an hour. Sustained, loud, reverberations shake the foundations where the masses are huddled together in absolute shock. This has been expected but the reality is sinking in, despite brave faces and songs to distract the children. The reality is this - the Germans are coming, and this raid will be the first of many to soften the city’s resistance. When they step up into the acrid atmosphere, they shouldn’t be surprised to see evidence of the destruction inflicted by the Luftwaffe. The girl, Michelle, clings to Helena tightly and Helena clings back. She is shocked, because only now does she think of Serge, and she isn’t sure why that is. Perhaps her immediate need to protect, and her faith in his innate confidence served to assure her he would be fine. 

They pick their way back along the road, and as they approach the same house Helena sees them. A woman no older than herself wearing a red cardigan, and a man with his shirt sleeves bunched up around his elbows and dirt smeared up his arms. They are frantically calling and searching, that much is clear, and then Michelle cries out. Her hand pulls away to leave Helena’s in an empty curl by her side. The family reunite in relief and fear and joy, then Michelle is pointing back to Helena and the couple smile, teary eyed as they approach. 

“Thank you so much, thank you!” The mother grabs Helena into a hug, with a kiss to each cheek. Michelle’s father musters a relieved smile, placing a protective arm around his wife's waist and a palm on his daughter’s shoulder. Anxiety radiates from them all, and Helena frets for parents with little ones as the war marches towards the city. 

“Thank you,” Michelle says quietly, “I hope your home is safe.”

Helena dips down, “I am sure it will be darling, thank you for keeping me company this afternoon,” she winks and is happy to see a little easing of the frown on her forehead.

They part ways, and Helena rushes back to find that the district where her grandparent’s home is remains untouched. Her grandfather arrives home later that evening, devastated and dishevelled. The factory has been targeted, lives have been lost, the damage immense, and production is at a halt. 

“I am only glad it was a day off for you, mon trésor,” he says, “Serge came by afterwards to help start the clean up. He was worried about you.” 

She nods gratefully and pulls her grandfather, who suddenly looks his age, into a hug. They are swiftly joined by her grandmother as they silently thank the universe that they are fine, for now.

In the weeks that follow, there are many raids, and panic spreads. Helena helps out at the damaged factory, but feels a little selfish retrieving her rolled up designs to store them in the relative safety of home. Each day she journeys across the city, there are signs of more people than usual arriving from towns and villages already occupied by the Germans. They are arriving, while others are preparing to flee before the might of the German army reaches Paris itself. Families with suitcases and wheelbarrows, young and old, all adrift and consigned to uncertainty. 

She and Serge do not meet outside of work since that first raid, choosing to lunch at the factory together, discussing the inevitable. Helena has both a British and a French passport due to her parentage, but they both know it would be dangerous for her to remain in France. She is certainly stubborn in her wish to be there for her mémère and pépère; and she feels a buzz when Serge relays whispers about a group of workers planning to covertly resist the invaders. As engineers, he and others at the factory had been exempt from conscription, their skills deemed vital to the war effort. Even so, Helena senses that he has felt somehow impotent up until now.

When the Germans arrive the collapse is swift. The French government flees south and Paris flings its doors wide open. On June 14th, they are amongst the crowds on the Champs Elysee as row upon row of regimented grey uniforms pour into the city. Helena’s eyes sting, and she drags her eyes away from the grimly fascinating spectacle to see the twitch of Serge’s jaw. She reaches across to squeeze his hand in the both of hers. 

The change in the city is instantaneous, the sheer might of the German army no longer a distant rumour. In the months that follow, the people of Paris regulated into submission by the uniforms which insinuate themselves into everyday life.

At the factory her grandfather is a leader, refusing to meet with the German army head of transportation. He resists until Helena and his colleagues persuade him there will be better battles to fight and win. Helena discards her British passport, as foreign nationals are being rounded up for interview before possible imprisonment or deportation. When several Jewish families on good business terms with the factory have their property and wealth expropriated by the German ambassador and later an anti-Jewish exhibition opens; Helena feels the chill of foreboding settle like a weight on her conscience. She often wonders about Michelle and her parents, and hopes they have left the city already.

Over the months she endures an existence on edge, finding solace in the underground activity that begins to make its presence felt. She participates in the distribution of anti-Nazi literature during the dead of night, hurrying from cover to cover to avoid patrols of soldiers and police alike. At the factory, now commandeered for the repair and production of military vehicles, they organise a go slow on the suggestion of her grandfather, and sabotage engine parts when they can do so without detection. She and Serge bond further in this new purpose, she is very fond of him, and they have a common drive to rail against occupation and the dull compliance of the populace. She doesn't blame everyday people for being paralysed by fear, but the active collaboration of authorities sworn to serve them disgusts her. Helena’s protective nature, and frustration in the face of regular injustice, will eventually force a decision that will alter her path through this war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ina Eloise Young was sports editor for Colorado Trinidad Chronicle-News, she covered the 1908 World Series.  
> \- Pierre-Jules Boulanger was the VP of the Paris Citroen factory who organised a go slow and instigated putting the notch on the oil dipstick in the wrong place - resulting in engine seizure of many trucks being built for the Germans.  
> \- June 3rd 1940 - Around 300 Luftwaffe planes were involved in the raid over Paris. The Citroen automobile plant was targeted as were other factories. June 14 1940 - the German army marched into Paris unopposed and the government fled south, setting up an unoccupied zone governed from Vichy by Marshal Pétain, with German approval.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1942, when Myka Bering and Helena Wells are about to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are jumping forward in time, but don't worry - we will discover more about the intervening years as we go along.
> 
> A little earlier than planned, this chapter!

**London, April 1942**

A typed address on the slip of white paper in Myka’s hand brought a rare smile to her face. Baker Street was synonymous with mystery, and the stories her father loved. He even told her that he once travelled to Denver to meet the author. Now here she stood, on this famous London street in the dull light of a misty April morning. The red metal bucket on the step, full to the brim with damp sand, served to remind her of the present reality, with its ever present threat of bombing raids.

Orchard Court is a perfunctory seven storey red brick building with pristine windows and blackout blinds half drawn. The doorman nods with a gentle smile before ushering her inside a small apartment, then into a bathroom which seems to serve as a waiting area. She is perched for ten minutes on the edge of a white ceramic bath, all the while schooling herself not to tap her fingers against her thigh. When the doorman returns he brings her to the living area where awaits a slim, athletic man with fair thinning hair. Thrusting his hand out eagerly, this disarming figure puts Myka at ease despite her strange confinement only minutes earlier, 

“Maurice, nice to meet you Miss Bering,” he says, before leaning back against a broad mahogany table, “and how was your journey here?”

Myka had hesitated - that day two weeks ago when she'd been approached by a grey haired man while on her lunch break in Hyde Park - thinking she was being propositioned. She was, but not in the way she assumed. He said he was from the war effort, and would she be interested in exploring other ways she could make a difference? They had heard good things about her language skills and other unnamed exploits abroad, it would be a shame to waste talent, he’d said. She hadn't thought she was wasted, not entirely, in providing translations of French and German newspapers and propaganda. Yet her interest was certainly piqued. She wasn't entirely naive about the implications of the conversation, colleagues had discussed how agreeable the British were to approaching allies with particular experience. What happened after was less common knowledge. 

She has been in England for around three months, her passage there fraught with uncertainty, danger and loss. So now, in this apartment, with this genial Englishman clinging firmly to her hand, her response holds more honesty than intended.

“My journey?” she chokes out a laugh, “Thousands of miles from anywhere I could call home, hundreds of miles travelled to sit tapping my feet in a bathroom, with no knowledge of why? It's been peachy, Mr…?” 

“Buckmaster,” he quickly squeezes before releasing her hand. “I apologise for the wait, but needs must,” he says without further elaboration, betraying no surprise at her outburst.

She suppresses the urge to utter a sarcastic comment by pursing her lips, and waits him out. He regards her impassively, then taps a finger against his clean shaven chin,

“Western United States, is it?” 

“I'm sure you already know, Mr Buckmaster,” she smiles without mirth, frustrated that she is losing the habit of impassivity perfected in the past year or so 

He chuckles, “Ah but that's where you are mistaken, Miss Bering. I prefer to have no preconceptions when I meet candidates,” 

Myka removes her raincoat, feeling unnaturally warm, and drapes it over her arm, “Candidates…?” 

His mouth forms a thin line now, “Of course. This meeting is subject to the Official Secrets Act, is that clear?”

Myka concedes, impatient to move past this, and he fastens the three buttons on his single breasted navy blazer before heading down a short hallway. 

“This way!” 

She follows, to where he opens a door into a bedroom which she immediately observes has been set up as an informal office. 

“This is Miss Atkins,” Maurice introduces with a flourish, and Myka steps into the room. He closes the door quietly, leaving them alone. 

Vera Atkins, as Myka will come to know her, is immaculately presented in a tweed suit and not a hair out of place. With the briefest of smiles she stands, adding another firm handshake to Myka's collection, before brushing down the front of her skirt and returning to a perfect posture in a high backed leather armchair. Myka sits and consciously presses her back upright in the hard wooden dining chair opposite, deliberately placing her hands in her lap. She is reminded of every audience with her father. She is being assessed, though she surmises that her interrogator is at the very most only ten years her senior.

Miss Atkins offers Myka a cup of tea (she declines), then reiterates the need for discretion, as she takes up a cigarette and lights it without delay. Taking a dainty drag on the tobacco, Miss Atkins overtly gazes at Myka’s attire, her physicality, and in doing so tests her capacity for patience. By the time she finally speaks, the cigarette has burnt down by a third.

“So, Miss Bering, it may or may not surprise you to know that we are aware of your exploits in Southern France,” she says, “Commendable.”

Myka’s nature is to underplay her achievements, but in this case she's painfully aware of the failures more than the successes. She has been out of the country for a number of months now, and she is only now reconciling herself to the fact that she left alone. Miss Atkins, however, does not let her shy away from it entirely.

“Your articles provided vital information at the time, Miss Bering,” she continues, “You were under great personal risk by the end of your time there; you demonstrated resourcefulness and bravery when it was not your obligation to do so.”

Myka colours a little under the praise, feeling embarrassment tinged with pride. A moment later it turns to shame at the emotion she has no right to feel. 

“Your command of the language played it’s part I am sure, tell me about that.”

Miss Atkins stubs out the cigarette and takes a sip from her tea and Myka finds her voice in the relief of safer ground.

“I took up French lessons when I was 12 years old, then studied German at college,” she pauses but it’s clear she is expected to elaborate. “My teacher actually grew up in a town near the Swiss border before her family emigrated to Canada and on to States.”

“Yes, this town - Montbeliard, I believe?” Myka nods, surprised. She’s about to question her sources when Miss Atkins leans forward suddenly. 

“You were fond of her? I think that is the first natural smile I have seen.” 

Myka’s smile, naturally, falters, but she remains honest and true to her youth.

“I am - was. She was a very good tutor, and like a sister - more so than my own...” 

Myka rarely corresponds with Tracy, who moved away when she married her childhood sweetheart the moment she was 18. She realises that now she should do something to remedy it, Kevin is in the military, and it’s very likely he will be on his way to Europe soon if not already. Miss Atkins appears to see something in Myka’s eyes, clearly filing a thought away before turning the conversation towards less personal topics. Myka learns to be unsurprised by what is known about her past, and they even discuss her current lodgings and their suitability.

“I believe I have all I need for now, Miss Bering, thank you for your prompt arrival today,” 

Miss Atkins is reaching for a brown folder that has been sat on the table between them.  
Myka squints as a thought clicks into place - Miss Atkin’s diction is almost perfect King’s English and she has the appearance of a stern English nanny - but something about the soft lilt in the woman’s pronunciation of the ‘H’ at the start of a word has her questioning. Myka speaks without caution, a little irritated by the feeling of her life being under scrutiny. 

“May I ask you a question, Miss Atkins...you weren’t born in England, were you?”

Her interviewer doesn’t overtly react, but Myka sees the minute twitch of her left eye and internally congratulates herself.

“Very good, Miss Bering, you have an excellent ear,” Miss Atkins says, still with perfect enunciation, though she doesn’t appear entirely happy. “Bucharest. Though in future, I think it will serve you well to retain such skillfully obtained information, it can have it’s uses.” 

It seems Myka has been deemed worthy, and that conversation is closed before it has chance to continue, for Miss Atkins now takes out a slip of paper from the folder and passes it to her.

“Please present yourself for fitting, 10 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning,” she says, “you will have a commision with the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, for appearances, you understand.”

Myka is getting a sense of what she is being invited into, only a fool wouldn’t. The secrecy, the attention to detail, the interest in her skills and fluency in two particular languages. She supposed a uniform would negate most questions ordinary people may pose.

“Mr Buckmaster and myself do appreciate that we have said very little of what this opportunity entails, but you are an intelligent young woman,” Miss Atkins stands, ready to dismiss, and Myka gathers her belongings. “I trust you will be patient. There is a three to four week residential which you are required to attend. Details will be relayed to you shortly.”

Myka hesitates but presses on regardless, _now or never_. “Miss Atkins,” she says, and sharp eyes narrow in displeasure, “there is a personal matter I need assistance with, now that I’m not in France, I can’t…”

She’s cut off sternly by a raised palm, but then the woman across from her looks down at her own unadorned hands and speaks though it brings Myka no reward. “We are aware of the circumstances which led to your arrival. However we are not at liberty to pursue any personal enquiries. Good day to you.”

With these departing words, Myka is ushered out first by Miss Atkins and then by the doorman. Mr Buckmaster is nowhere to be seen.

\----

She takes the tube back to her lodgings in Camden, a four storey terrace in which herself and three other women from the embassy currently reside under the auspices of a lively, yet strict landlady. Breakfast is at 7am sharp each morning and evening meals at 6pm, assuming she had informed Mrs Cooper she would be home. Curfew is at 10pm on weeknights, and a rather generous 11:30pm on Friday and Saturday nights. Mrs Cooper had protested that although she ran a strict household, she was not a total spoilsport, but-

“Absolutely no men must be brought back to this residence!”.

Not that Myka had any inclination or intention to return with a man in tow. Though she would occasionally venture out with a couple of the girls to a local dancehall, and received her fair share of attention from the off duty personnel in town. America had been drawn into the war, but her countrymen and women had yet to reach British shores, though Myka felt it wouldn’t be too far away. She was easily able to politely refuse the attention of their less brash, British counterparts, no matter the compliments her legs, her eyes, or her height drew. Men seemed to view her height as either a challenge or a fault, but the truth was she didn’t care. Sam, taller than her, had not seen her height as anything other than a part of her, and she didn’t want to think too much about him - not yet, not when she’d been summarily dismissed earlier, and her own Embassy had proved of little use.

She enjoyed the company of her housemates, and a lunchtime work acquaintance who the locals found fascinating and charming. Leena’s heritage proving more of an issue for those in the diplomatic service from back home. She was softly spoken, and an excellent translator - which was why she had applied and to her surprise, gained a position in the secretarial ranks. Said heritage had granted Leena a fluency in the French language that to Myka’s ear far outweighed her own competence. Her gentle beauty, full lips and hazel eyes turned the heads of many a man, but like Myka she would show no interest, 

“I have enough to contend with, I don’t need _that_ kind of trouble too!” she’d scoffed at the wolf whistles and backwards glances they received during their strolls in the park. 

If Myka was to bring anyone back to her lodgings, it would have been Leena for tea and cake, but she never had chance to test Mrs Cooper’s tolerance. Almost a month to the day after her trip to Baker Street, Myka found an envelope slipped under her bedroom door. It contained train tickets for Saturday that coming weekend, for Wanborough in Surrey. A typed note informed her that she would be met at the station, and advised to pack on the assumption she would be away for three weeks on orientation for her WAAF post; her current lodgings had been retained for the next month. 

For the rest of that week, Myka was a mass of nervous anticipation. The mundanity of the work she has been gainfully employed in since an unceremonious arrival on these shores had easily outweighed the thought of returning home to Colorado. Yet, she’d been enquiring after press correspondent posts and felt she was close to success; but the clandestine nature of her apparent recruitment tingled her inquisitive nose more keenly. After having measurements taken for a new uniform all those weeks ago, she had gathered up recently typed application letters and bundled them into a shoe box. There was still a high chance she would need them again, after the month was up. 

\----

Under the harsh lights of the ladies powder room at Waterloo Station, Myka doesn’t recognise herself in the full length mirror. She pulls uneasily at the thick blue woollen fabric of her WAAF jacket, and readjusts the cap on top of her rolled up hair. She feels like an imposter, she _is_ an imposter - even more so when a group of young women, seemingly heading for a day out, eye her curiously.

“Good morning,” she says, to alleviate her own discomfort as much as to be polite. 

“An American!” one of the women exclaims, before turning to her friends. “I heard they will be coming over, my sister cannot wait, she says there aren’t many eligible bachelors out there nowadays…” they giggle, and Myka looks away in disbelief.

The train journey takes over two hours out of the city, mainly because of unscheduled stops involving faulty signals and debris on the line. She is in a compartment with a young man also in uniform and an elderly couple, who alight an hour into the journey, leaving her alone with him. They smile politely and she has no qualms about being a single woman alone, though propriety would suggest she should think otherwise. He is young and fresh faced with neat dark hair, perhaps five or six years younger than herself. He seems nervous, as if building up the courage to make conversation and ease the boredom. 

“Long journey,” she says with another small smile, “are you going far?” 

He checks his watch, “On to Wanborough, another 45 minutes perhaps?” he shrugs, “If it’s not too impolite - yourself?”

She cocks her head to one side, “Same,” points at his Army uniform then back at her own, “I wonder if we are going to the same place?”

He grins, relaxing, “Ah, a mystery! Much like the puzzle of why an American woman is travelling in a WAAF uniform across the English countryside....”

She likes him, but hearing Miss Atkins voice in her head, she steers their conversation to talk about the weather, and ways to pass the time on a train. He seems to understand, but when they find themselves stood outside the station at the pick up point, it seems they will not be parting ways just yet.

Another woman is alongside them, dressed in a khaki uniform with a broad brown belt. Myka thinks she may be older than Miss Atkins, but her slightly wary disposition doesn’t put her in mind of a superior.

“Myka,” she introduces herself to the woman, named Mary, and then turns to her train companion.

“William, at your service,” he bows slightly, and it’s as Myka is laughing with him that a jeep rumbles into view and pulls up at the roadside.

A rambunctious, feminine voice calls from the driver’s window.

“Better get that out of your system, double quick. There’s no fun and games to be had where you’re going.” 

Myka turns to see a woman leaning out along the driver’s side window, her chin resting on grease streaked arms. 

“All three of you, hop in,” and she directs a long finger at William. “You, in the front.”

Myka glances sideways at her companions and while Mary is frowning but already moving, William’s cheek colour to betray his flustered state. Even more so when the door opens and their driver jumps out. She’s dressed in brown military trousers and pale brown shirt, the sleeves rolled up with precision above her elbows and a green scarf tied in a knot at her neck. 

She is already lifting their cases into the trunk when William regains his manners and attempts to help, receiving an exasperated command to “Just get in the car!” for his troubles.

Myka steps up into the seat behind the driver, and smiles her brightest. 

“Thanks for the lift…’ She winces as curious dark eyes regard her for a moment then, seemingly fighting a smirk, their escort shuts Myka’s car door.

Once seated and on the move, William regains his composure and Myka has to give him credit, his boyish charm wins through pretty quickly.

“William Walcott,” he offers his hand across and the woman takes it briefly before changing gear. 

“Helena Wells,” she says, lifting her voice to where Mary and Myka sit behind. 

Helena’s jet black hair is tied up in a vertical roll at the back, though a few strands are loose against the pale skin of her neck. 

William smiles, “Nice to meet you Miss Wells-”

“I'm not an old maid,” she says indignantly, “Call me Helena.”

“I think, Helena,” he says, “that _you_ drew the short straw this afternoon - having to play at chauffeur...”

She laughs, deep and indulgent, “Am I that bloody obvious?” 

Myka is watching the exchange in the rear view mirror, and when Helena catches Myka's eye her laughter peters out and she arches an eyebrow before slowly dragging her gaze back to the road.

“So, _Mr Walcott_ ,” she says slyly, “Where have you traveled from?”

The journey lasts around fifteen minutes. Mary remains quiet throughout and Myka finds her eyes drooping no matter how she tries to listen to the conversation up front. She dozes, to be abruptly jolted awake when the jeep pulls to a halt.

Helena loudly whispers, “I fear, Wolly, that we have sent your American to sleep with our chatter!” 

Myka grumbles good naturedly, she’s not _his_ and her name is _Myka_ , and William in turn cryptically mutters to Helena that she owes _him_ a drink. 

They have parked outside a large country house, and as they walk up to the impressive entrance with the crunch of gravel underfoot, Myka nudges William’s shoulder.

“Wolly, eh?” she teases. 

He sighs dramatically, “Hmm, yes, she said I remind her of her brother…”

She feels a little envious of his obvious ease around new people, but now she chuckles, Helena’s aloof charm has worked wonders on one person at least. 

\---

They are residing in a red brick Elizabethan Manor complete with stables, outbuildings and a huge barn surrounded by rolling countryside. Myka’s room on the first floor overlooks the garden, where purple crocuses and yellow daffodils display a dash of colour against the trees beyond. There is a single bed against one wall, with a matching oak wardrobe and set of drawers opposite. Under the window is a dressing table and high-backed chair, in the corner a sink with a silver framed mirror above. 

She places her worn suitcase on the bed and flips open the metal catches. Her sparse collection meant there had been little to pack - two dresses, two pairs of trousers, two blouses and her underthings. Rationing extended to clothing and it served people well to live with less material, less detail, less adornments, and less luxury. It didn't trouble Myka, in fact she liked the new streamlined fashions, they were more flattering and took less maintenance. She hadn’t been entirely sure what was expected, and wonders now if her she will be in her uniform most of the time. Suddenly, a yelp of over-excitement startles her from her reverie.

“Oh! You have a view of the garden!” 

Myka spins, and a girl introduced earlier as Lizzie is bouncing into her room, peeking over the dresser. She grimaces, “They've stuck me at the back, overlooking the courtyard.”

“When the dawn chorus is waking me up and you are still snoring, I’ll come remind you of my lovely view…” Myka smirks and Lizzie does too.

“Jolly. Good. Point.” She punches the words out, then bounds back out with a breezy “See you at dinner!”

When they’d arrived earlier, they found that they were the last of the cohort to do so. Helena had breezed past, instructing them to hang their coats up, leave their cases at the foot of the broad staircase and follow her along the oak paneled hallway. They’d been led to the back of the house where a set of double doors opened up into a large sun room and the low buzz of activity within. There were thirty chairs spaced in short rows, and along the inside wall a long table held a selection of sandwiches and cakes, with a tea urn dominating at one end. A number of people were sat with plates perched on their knees, others were gazing out at the gardens; and three men stood at one end of the room where a board was propped up on a wooden easel.

Helena gestured at the food, “Help yourselves, we’ll be starting in a few minutes,” and she left them without a backward glance to join the men at the front. 

Myka watched as she greeted them, gesticulating back towards where they stood and making two of the men laugh. The third, who was greying and maybe fifteen years older than his colleagues, smoothed his moustache while attempting a smile which emerged only as a leer. Scanning the room, Myka surmised that, including herself, there were sixteen people as well as the group at the front. Mary made a beeline for the urn, and Myka placed a few sandwiches on a plate. Myka could hear a few unusual accents for this part of the world, but when the moustached man cleared his throat, asking everyone to be seated, _he_ was English through and through.

“I am Crowley,” he said, and waved his hand vaguely behind him, “and assisting me over the course of your assessments will be McShane, Darby, and Wells.” 

The tall well built man with sandy hair, and the wiry, wily looking chap alongside Helena Wells nodded in turn, while the woman herself stood working her fingers up into the hair above her ears. The next words Crowley speaks, Myka understands perfectly well because he shifts seamlessly into French.

_”You would not be here if you cannot understand me, though I have no doubt there will be some work to do. Your additional language must become a second skin,”_ he walks up the centre aisle, surveying the room. Myka keeps her eyes trained ahead so notices Helena roll her eyes. Myka concedes that Crowley is self important, but she’s a little shocked that one of his team can mock him so easily.

Crowley continued, oblivious. _”Your instructors may switch language at any time, or require you to converse in any way other than English for an activity, or even a full day.”_

He suddenly switches back to English. “You have been selected for testing in a number of aptitudes, after which you may move on to full training, or return to your current civilian or military roles,” his voice lowers, “I cannot impress on you enough the need for discretion away from this place, and the need for honesty whilst here. If you have a question, ask it, if you have a weakness do not try to hide it, if you have a strength, hone it.”

Not much more was covered, aside from more of the housekeeping rules Myka was accustomed to: breakfast at 7am unless an exercise required them to be up earlier, lunch in the field, evening meal 7pm. When they are not taking part in activities, their time is their own and there are no social rules imposed. They are free to explore outdoors and use the stables, there is a games room, a library, and even a bar to relax in. She can cope with routine, but is a little unnerved at what seems to be actively encouraged indulgence. No-one has been told what they will be assessed on, or truly why, though she can hazard a very good guess. As she finishes unpacking and starts her nighttime routine before dinner, Myka is under no illusion that come morning, their gentle introduction will give way to a rude awakening. 

\----

Helena’s arm shoots out from under the bed covers and slams on top of the alarm, stopping the metal hammer ringing at its inconsiderate pitch. At 5am, the sun is not due to rise for at least another hour. She stretches and groans as her nightshirt rides up and the covers drag down - cold air hits her skin and her breath puffs in front of her face. Despite the hour, Helena is impatient to get on with the day, to keep her mind active and distracted. 

She sits up as always, kisses her fingertips and presses them to the photograph she keeps tucked in a drawer of the nightstand by her bed. They’ve been back at the manor house for a week and already the wrench of separation is eating at her, but there is guilt of a different kind driving her too. This will be the fifth batch of potential agents she has been involved with since transferring from Section F research. She feels the heavy weight of responsibility when a new group starts, knowing that most of them aren't truly aware of what they are letting themselves in for. For her, it is a productive way to mark the weeks until she can go home again, she just has to give her best to them and hope it’s enough.

She tiptoes into the bathroom, but the water pressure and temperature from the broad flat shower head doesn’t provide much relief, and she can feel cool air biting at the edge of billowing steam. Hearing footsteps on the landing outside and a tentative knock on wood, Helena grabs her towel from a hook on the wall.

“Almost done!” she calls, wondering which of the women (all on this first floor, men are on the second) is an early bird. 

She wraps her towel tightly under her arms, and forcibly rubs at her hair with another, leaving it loose as she cracks open the door. The landing is still in darkness but the light from the bathroom spills out to reveal a tall pajama-wearing figure waiting patiently, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill and clinging to a wash bag. Her pajama bottoms look a little on the short side, but Helena is envious of what appears to be flannel cotton. 

“The American,” she says, unsurprised now that she thinks on it. This woman was one of those in the room yesterday who had hung off every word Crowley had uttered, and one of the first to bed that night.

Now, the American’s eyes widen ever so slightly as she takes in Helena’s appearance, uttering her own name, “Myka,” eyes darting up from Helena’s bare legs to her face, “Good morning.” 

“Scandalous, I know,” Helena says with a wry smile, “Having to run between rooms with only a flimsy towel to cover my modesty.” She winks for additional effect and moves past Myka Bering, across to her own room, and hears the bathroom door shut moments later. 

At 6.30am, she is stood outside watching the dawn light creep across the yard while McShane appraises the sixteen people before him. There are ten men and six women, each at various stages of consciousness judging by their postures. Over a glass of scotch following lights out the previous night, she, Crowley, McShane and Darby had placed their usual wagers on how many of this cohort would pass. It went a little against her wish to respect each and every one of their charges, but even those on top needed light relief. Helena was of the opinion that as long as their command of the language was good enough, then Crowley would pass them, and so she had placed her name next to a fairly high number. They were desperate for operatives, but in reality she would fight any decision if she believed someone was more likely to be a danger to themselves and others.

Unlike her colleagues, Helena didn't place so much value on the physical assessments - candidates weren't there to become infantry, rather, everyday people with extraordinary secrets. Yes, Helena had needed to run or fight at times, but when it came down to it, controlling the adrenaline and using her wits were what got her out of sticky situations. Helena’s involvement today was in part Crowley’s way of asserting his authority, but also a grudging acknowledgement that she was one the best at initial character assessments. There had been occasions in the past when she had advised against retaining two candidates at this stage and, both times, they’d been captured within their first month on foreign soil. A waste of their talents, and a waste of life.

McShane ran with them along the country lanes, while she rode a bicycle up and down the line. The exercise was never sold as a competitive race, so how people applied themselves could be revealing. This morning as usual, the majority of the men tried to keep pace near the front, but she was pleased to see that Walcott wasn’t one of them. He remained in touch with the main group without exerting himself, clearly capable but doing no more than necessary, because who knew what was ahead. He was making friends, keeping those around him motivated, and she was reminded again of why she saw elements of her brother in him. Easy going, a young man women wanted to mother and felt comfortable with. In Walcott’s case he didn’t yet want, or rather, know how to turn that to his advantage. Instead he would blush furiously and be content with doing things well and right. She couldn’t help but tease him as she pedalled forward from the back group.

“Come on Wolly, knees up!” she called as she freewheeled past, dodging loose stones in the road. 

“Hey!” a sharp yell has Helena twisting back, already sure of the source. She applies a light pressure to the rear brakes, just as Bering throws a sheepish grin her way from where she jogs alongside Wolly.

“Maybe you should be demonstrating the correct technique instead of taking the easy option, Ms Wells!”

_Interesting. This woman is not so timid today._ “America, somebody has to keep you all in check. If one of you were to sneak across that field and rejoin up ahead,” she calls, “that would hardly be fair now, would it?”

Bering drops her head forward then tilts back up, breathing a regular rhythm, but the challenge in her eye remains. “Hey, who said this was a competition, I’d call that initiative!” 

Helena enjoys getting to know the characters in the group, as invariably one or two always stand out. She hasn't yet worked out Myka Bering, who is currently an odd mixture of playfulness and conformity. Wolly and the three others in their pack remain fixated on the horizon, studies in concentration, unsure how this exchange will end. 

“I concede you do have a point, America,” she says, “I look forward to meeting you at the end!”

Helena pings the bicycle bell with a flourish, pressing down on the pedals, last word delivered. 

“Colorado!” she hears a frustrated call from behind, “I’m from Colorado!” and Helena thinks that this group may be just distracting enough to make the time tick over a little faster.

\---

A routine is established over the next few days, one of early rises, followed by demanding physical activity during the day, and free time after the evening meal. Everyone returns each day needing to clean up, to rub aching muscles and apply ointment to scrapes and cuts. Afterwards, they generally divide into two types - those who choose to unwind in the communal parlour, playing cards, taking a drink, and those who prefer not to mingle, retiring to their rooms as soon as possible or finding a quiet spot. Helena by now has a fair handle on most of them, and Mary Herbert, who arrived with Bering and Walcott, is seemingly a loner. The eldest female there is quiet and steady but unaccustomed to the tougher physical work they’ve been doing, and Helena can see she is suffering. 

It’s the fourth night, and Helena has wandered into the library to find Mary sipping tea, sat in a window seat. “It gets better, I promise. Oh, and between you and me,” she whispers, “it's a later rise tomorrow morning…”

Mary looks at her with tired eyes, “I’m not sure I am cut out for this, whatever this is,” she says quietly. 

“We all have the capacity to surprise ourselves,” Helena tips her head back against the window, and scoffs. “All this running about, well, let’s just say there will be more cerebral activities soon. I have a feeling that will suit you better, Mary.” 

Helena watches the flicker of interest materialise, and she hates herself a little for it. Mary sits up a little straighter and stretches out her arms, flexing her fingers. 

“Actually, I miss knitting,” she says, and Helena can’t stop the barking laugh that escapes. And Mary laughs too. 

“Oh, sorry…” a voice says, and Helena internally curses when she glances up, because Mary’s laughter stops when faced with this example of everything she is not. Myka Bering.

Helena turns to Mary, “I bet America here can’t knit for toffee.”

The intruder steps further into the room, tall and physically imposing though a little awkward with it. Mary will see someone who runs with ease and tackles the obstacle course like a second nature, though Helena thinks Bering is quite unaware of the effect her physical presence has.

“Knit?” she’s saying, with confusion, “You’re making us knit?” 

Helena and Mary laugh as Bering flushes, but it doesn't escape Helena’s notice that this is the first time she hasn’t protested the nickname. 

“I just want to find a good book,” she says shortly, tiredly gesturing at the shelves, “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Before Helena can respond, Mary jumps in. “Myka, apologies for our rudeness! Ms Wells here - Helena - here was attempting to give me a motivational talk,” she smiles knowingly at Helena before standing, “thank you, by the way. I’m off to bed, to make the most of it.” 

Mary is an inch or two shorter than Helena, and looks even slighter when she passes Bering, who offers a genial good night, before fixing Helena with a glare. 

“Don’t think I didn't notice you still insist on not using my name, Ms Wells.” 

Helena chuckles, because _there it is_ , the challenge that in the right circumstance Myka Bering can’t resist. In truth Helena only persisted with the name because she knew it struck a nerve, as though Myka didn't want to be defined by a nationality. Myka was a rarity as the first American woman on their programme, only time would tell whether she was as uninhibited as other Americans Helena had encountered. Helena sensed that her boldness wasn't an ingrained character trait so much as a tool, or a necessity in defence of herself, but more likely of a friend or colleague. 

Helena meanders to the far end of the shelving to locate a particular book, pulls it out and fans the pages. 

“You seem to be forgetting that I am your superior here, _America_ ,” she says, acutely aware she is enjoying this too much, especially when Bering’s eyes flash briefly with concern, before hardening.

“Respect goes both ways,” she punches out, emphasising her accent with a tight smile, before looking away and running lean fingers along the cracked spines lining the shelves.

Helena sighs and strolls over, holding the book out. 

“Very well, _Bering_. I think you will appreciate this,” she says, and smiles when the proffered book is reluctantly taken from from her hand.

“The Time Machine,” Myka says, and Helena is caught in curious grey-green eyes, any challenge gone, “H.G. _Wells_?” 

Helena hums, and carries on walking to the doorway, “Yes, _Wells_. Surely you know the name, _Colorado_?” and she smiles to herself when she hears a strangled half laugh half cry as she’s stepping into the corridor. 

The following afternoon the group is split into teams for the reconfigured assault course. Crowley and Darby have joined them, patrolling the sidelines in pristine white shirts, Helena wouldn’t usually mind, but she knows them well. They are chain smoking, and most likely assessing the females on more than just their ability and interactions. She’s familiar with the reports on candidates, of course, and it’s regarded as a legitimate part of the assessment. Distasteful as she finds it, the powers that be see advantages to a pretty face. 

Crowley calls her over with a hooked finger, “Wells, chose the teams - give us your reasoning behind them.” 

“Finch, Taylor and Lawson haven’t spoken more than a few pleasantries to each other since we have been here; Beekman, Newman and Bloch all have very similar approaches, I want to see if we can tease out anything new…”

“Ah yes, Newman...Lizzie,” Darby flips the paper on his clipboard, “Youngest here.” 

He looks over to where a young woman with strawberry blonde hair is talking animatedly with her partners while warming up. She is nineteen years old, but a prime candidate because she’d been attending boarding school in Switzerland at the outbreak of the war. Lizzie was withdrawn by her parents after the invasion of Poland and sent to a private school in London. She is far too idealistic in Helena’s eyes, misguided by a sense of romance and adventure - and she only hopes that the next few weeks either eliminate Lizzie as a candidate or at the least open the girl’s eyes to the work. Helena says as much now. 

“Helena, with the right training, she could be an extremely valuable asset to this country,” Crowley says, and looks at Darby, “Don’t you agree?”

Darby agrees, pulling at one of his slightly protruding ears, and Helena rolls her eyes. He doesn’t entirely believe what he’s saying, but it’s what Crowley wants to hear, and so. Darby is a crack shot, a weapons expert, and it frustrates Helena that he has any voice on things beyond his scope. There’s a sudden shout in French from the far end of the course, because this afternoon there is no other language permitted. McShane is in place and Helena turns back to Crowley.

“I have yet to be convinced,” she speaks with conviction of Lizzie Newman, and he just quirks his moustache at her and pulls a pencil from behind his ear to make a note.

She takes a position, and at the end of the line she can see the focused demeanour of Myka Bering, alongside Mary Herbert and Jack Rake. Helena had thought to put Bering with Herbert following their encounter in the library the night before, while Rake reminded her of Crowley - a boastful type, imagining himself a leader. Helena had a feeling he would assume that role was his, and feel slighted at being placed with two women, but these women should not be easily cowed. She always loved being proved right about such things, and as the afternoon progressed, it transpired she was. 

The course had been made tougher, and teams were required to navigate together and finish together - choosing which obstacles to tackle to achieve their combined score. Teams were required to choose what to attempt, with the more difficult garnering more points in the time allowed. The high climbing wall had been doubled in height to make it a more difficult prospect, but it also carried the incentive of the greatest points. When Mary Herbert was struggling at that wall, so much so that she’d fallen twice in frustration, it was Myka who took the lead, while Rake abandoned them in his own brand of frustration. Myka positioned herself halfway up a rope to cajole and drag Mary up, before moving to the very top and reaching down to repeat the process and bring her the rest of the way. They had laughed together at the top, and Myka had got the team to the end of the course with what were clearly the right words in the ear of a sulking Rake. As the three bent over in recovery at the finish line, McShane had nodded to Helena over the top of their bodies in acknowledgment of Bering’s leadership qualities. In under a week, Myka Bering was demonstrating that she would opt for the tougher route if the reward warranted it. A calculated risk taker, physically strong and a team player. She was early on showing why she had been identified as agent material, and Helena was curious about her time in France’s unoccupied zone - because at this stage she had only been given limited details. 

That night, Mary would join Myka, Wolly and a few others in the games room who were attempting to hustle each other at the billiard table. Helena was sat playing cards with McShane, and when Bering glanced over, she raised her glass of scotch. 

“Myka darling, I do hope you are not corrupting them with that awful eight ball pool you Americans love,” she called, and Myka opened her mouth automatically to protest, but instead cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. 

“Don't you worry, _English_ , I'm playing by your rules,” she said, and raised her own glass before turning back to the table.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In 1923 - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle went on a North American Tour.  
> \- People of many different nationalities became agents of the SOE, including some Americans  
> \- Maurice Buckmaster was head of Section F (France SOE)  
> \- Vera Atkins assessed and monitored over 400 agents through training, receiving reports from instructors across the country. Heavily involved in certain aspects of training and preparation for deployment, but for this story, she’ll probably only appear fleetingly.  
> \- The sitting in a bathroom - that was a real experience for potential agents awaiting interview by Atkins  
> \- Preliminary training led on to specialist training at various UK locations for those who passed muster


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than planned, but hopefully worth the wait. Now, I really must finish that B&W Holiday Gift...

_**May 1942** _

It’s been over a week since she arrived, and lying in bed under heavy woolen blankets, Myka listens to the sounds of the house as it settles for the night. It’s soothing to hear the creak of the stairs, the whispered nighttime partings, and the twang of pipes working to supply water for evening bathroom rituals. Once silent, it is heavily so, but for the occasional hoot of an owl or cry of a fox in the dead of night. Myka has felt bodily more relaxed than she has in a while, she relishes the close quarters intensity of the practical assessments that stretch and tire her physically. Unfortunately, the quiet of the night does allow her mind to wander, and it drifts to thoughts of her first year in France because at times, the good company at the residential made her feel a tiny bit like her old self. It had been hectic, socially, culturally and professionally eye-opening for Myka, initially through Sam’s contacts and eventually her own. Sam. She pushes that thought aside, and another comes to the fore unbidden.

 _’Darling’_ Helena had said, that night in the games room, and Myka had been startled for a moment, vividly reminded of her dear friend and teacher. Charlotte’s casual but genuinely affectionate way with people had left a lasting impression, and it felt oddly out of place for that familiar endearment to be used here. But then Helena Wells seemed oddly out of place too. Myka senses at times that her teasing and humour is a little forced, as though making the best of a situation - and she finds it confusing, though she isn’t sure why. She'd been unaccountably irritated by the deliberate refusal to use her name, despite Wolly insisting it was a sign Wells liked her - after all, he had taken on his nickname as a badge of pride. So, unable to prevent herself rising to the bait, Myka had only succeeded in encouraging Wells, until suddenly, there it was - ‘Myka’ tossed out like a gift, as if the most natural thing for Helena. But hearing that lazy drawl of her name, Myka wasn't sure if she should prefer the tease of _America_ after all. It felt wrong to be preoccupied by such triviality, especially once she’d realised the teasing was just that, and had found herself responding to it and then enjoying their exchanges. She felt guilt at taking pleasure in small moments, when there were circumstances elsewhere still so uncertain. Like the creaking manor house, Myka’s mind takes it’s sweet time to settle - so she falls back on an exercise she learnt from a friend, she mentally writes a journal entry and catalogues her decisions from the working day. It’s avoidance, but it usually helps her drift off to sleep. 

They have a few hours free in the morning, and Myka takes herself to a bench in the gardens, hot mug of tea in one hand, and the book Helena gave her in the other, though she struggles to concentrate. She's adrift in a foreign country, a war raging on many fronts, and after her wandering thoughts of the previous night, she can’t help but miss Sam. So when Wolly strolls up and sits next to her, she finds herself talking about him, and she feels some relief in sharing part of her story, if not all. Wolly doesn't press, or pry, he just listens with that fresh faced earnest expression of his - and Myka thinks it'll be a lucky woman who feels the full force of his devotion. 

“The uncertainty, more than anything, is what I struggle with,” she says quietly. 

“When my brother didn't come back from Dunkirk, we were at a loss,” he shrugs, “you just cope in your own way.”

“Mine is to throw myself into this crazy venture…”

“Not crazy” and he grimaces, “ok, maybe a little off the beaten track - but _worthy_ , nonetheless” he says.

She shakes her head at him, “Wolly, we don’t even know why we are here, we can guess, of course...”

He taps his nose, “Ha, Myka let’s not fool ourselves,” she tenses, until he drops his voice dramatically, comically, “I’ve heard it told that should you fail, you are sent to the _cooler_ , sounds rather clandestine don't you think?” 

She laughs nervously, pushes his arm at the elbow, “You’re incorrigible!”

He laughs, “Mr Wolcott, my father that is, would agree with you. My mother would say he was as bad.”

“And your brother?” She asks 

“I shall ask him if - when - I see him”

She reaches across and squeezes his shoulder, “Oh, Wolly” 

He is quiet for a moment, watching a pair of blackbirds foraging in the undergrowth, then says. 

“You should talk to Helena, you know,” Myka is confused and he sees, “She was there, in Paris - when the Nazis arrived.”

Myka’s mouth opens, an “Oh” escapes, and Wolly smiles then winks.

“It might be good, to speak with someone who was there,” he shrugs, eyes bright, then stretches, “Spring may be in the air but it is chilly today, shall we step inside?” 

Myka nods, she’s been reminded that no-one here really knows anyone else - where they’ve been, what they have seen, what they have done. Most have clung to safe topics, because each person here will have a story that put them in a position to be selected, and for some it won’t be a positive one. If Helena was in Paris, if she had friends and loved ones there, Myka thinks she can understand a little more the mask of joviality, her dedication to the cause. Wolly means well, but she’s not sure if it’s a conversation either of them would want to have just yet.

\---

_**December 1938** _

Myka has felt in limbo for a long while, her life a series of stop start scenes, not quite joining together to make a complete picture. Even when they arrived in France, she and Sam hadn't put a timetable on what they were doing and it suited her. 

They’d docked at Bordeaux in November 1938, and a few days later she’d found herself in a luxurious hotel close to the Embassy that would be hers and Sam’s workplace. The foyer alone took her breath away, chequered marble flooring was reflected in floor to ceiling gilded mirrors, red velvet curtains framing doorways and windows, and an enormous chandelier threatened to dazzle her blind. 

“Pretty smart, huh?” Sam leaned in to murmur in her ear, and it tickles in a nice way, “Enjoy it while you can, we are here for two nights while our accommodation is finalised.”

She looks at him in shock, “‘Our?’” 

He laughs easily, “I could string you along, but sorry, turn of phrase. I shall have lodgings, and you shall have yours,” he coughs, a light blush on his neck, “and separate rooms tonight, of course.”

Her room feels just as opulent, classical furniture, lush furnishings and cotton sheets on the four poster bed. Sam had visited her briefly and they’d shared a drink and a tender moment at the window overlooking the city lights, though Myka wasn’t sure if she’d wanted him to be so chivalrous. But they were there, they had time, they were in Paris at a time of great creative freedom and cultural development - it was another world to Myka. 

As the weeks turned into months she threw herself into their new life. Sam was busy finding his feet at the embassy, but for Myka the secretarial work there didn’t particularly challenge her, so she found her outlet in other ways. There was a large Embassy community, and her command of the language meant she didn't feel uncomfortable embracing the street cafe culture. A month after arriving, they'd been invited to attend a ball at the Embassy, thrown by the Ambassador to entertain local dignitaries and their families, and it was there that she met one person who would have a big impact on her time there. 

When she stepped out of the car outside the Embassy, Myka felt like she was in a movie scene. She was wearing the dress she had chosen with a friend from the office, before seeing the price tag - Sam had somehow heard about it and surprised her by presenting the boxed up garment to her days later. She had chewed her lip when they'd received the fancy invite, worried about her outfit - after all she was in Paris, where her head kept getting turned by the simple elegance of women in the street who wore the latest fashions. She had never thought of clothing as particularly important, but she felt confident in the cream silk form fitting dress, with simple straps and delicate fringes circling her body from top to bottom. It certainly drew appreciative glances from men and women alike.

“You look stunning, Myka from Colorado Springs,” Sam said with a brilliant smile as they queued up the steps into the building, where American officers in dress uniform charmed the locals and a string quartet set the mood.

“Ain't so bad yourself Mr Martino,” she brushed a piece of cotton from the shoulder of his tux and felt a sudden surge of affection and gratitude. “Thank you” she whispered, and at his puzzled look, “for bringing me out here with you, without condition.”

“I would never expect something of you that you aren't ready for, Myka,” he said, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a waiter, “and you are here on merit, in fact there is someone here tonight I am desperate for you to meet!”

She revelled in her first taste of champagne as the bubbles tickled her nose and she was swiftly onto her second flute. They skirted the edges of the grand oak panelled ballroom which was lined with huge scarlet floral displays, and near to the grand buffet Sam spotted the person he was seeking.

“Myka, meet Vanessa Calder, she does work for the Associated Press here in Paris,” he fanned his hand out with a flourish, “Vanessa, Myka Bering.”

Vanessa was in her early fifties, her blonde hair was down but styled in broad waves across one side of her head and she wore a beautiful turquoise dress which brought out the blue of her eyes. Her smile was genuine, though her features were a little hard, as though sizing Myka up. 

“Pleased to meet you, Myka. Sam here seems to think you have a talent I can help with?” 

“Oh, Vanessa, I don't think, I know so,” Sam said, and Vanessa smiled but waited for Myka. 

Later, Myka was thankful she’d had the champagne, because it gave her courage she wouldn’t otherwise have had. Sam had told her about Vanessa Calder and Myka was aware of her work but standing in front of her intimidating presence was another matter. 

“I do, Vanessa...I work at the Embassy, pushing paper, making coffee…” she twisted her mouth in a resigned smirk, “It hardly stimulates me and so I’ve been writing, features actually. It would be a great honour if you would read them and give me your opinion.”

Vanessa looked at Sam then back at Myka, and laughed. Myka’s heart sank, but then Vanessa placed a hand at her elbow and turned her half away from Sam. 

“My dear girl, do you know Sam here has been badgering me to employ you, just like that!” she snaps her fingers playfully, and Myka blushes and shoot Sam a glare. 

“I’m so sorry, he’s a bit forward like that,” Myka says, and Sam laughs then excuses himself to speak to the Ambassador who is circling the room. 

Vanessa eyes her curiously, “I’m going to tell you something Myka, it’s not a secret, just a fact of life,” she stops a waiter and retrieves refilled flutes, passing one to Myka. “If you do not ask you do not get, and as a woman, if you do not work twice as hard and more as the men, you will not get recognition for what you do.”

Vanessa Calder it turns out, is a marvel. For some reason unbeknownst to Myka, she takes a shine to her. She thinks it’s a combination of womanly solidarity and Vanessa’s South Dakota heritage reaching out to a Coloradan, who is also a world away from a place they once called home. She doesn’t indulge Myka, she educates her and broadens her horizons. Myka is a hard worker, and she jumps at every invite to join Vanessa on an assignment that’s outside of her own working hours. This happens every few weeks, a society event, a writer’s workshop, an interview for a fashion feature, and on a few occasions, then with more frequency, what Myka would term a real news story. 

One evening, Vanessa collects Myka from outside the Embassy office entrance, waving from the driver’s side window of a brown Talbot Minor. She has asked Myka to dress for the cold, for a potentially long evening, and huddled in a long woollen coat, a scarf flung hastily around her neck, she had ran across the road and dropped into the passenger seat.

“How’s Sam?” Vanessa voiced a seemingly casual query, but Myka knows it is because she is concerned that she’s pulling Myka away too much. It's true she and Sam have seen less of each other than expected, but life has been hectic.

“He’s working late,” Myka replied, “It’s fine, where are we going?”

They drive for thirty minutes, into the outskirts of Paris, it’s dark and Myka feels vulnerable but e she trusts Vanessa. They are in one of the poorest districts where, outside a grocery store, they meet a man dressed in brown slacks and brown leather jacket. While they speak, smoke from the thin cigarette in his hand forms lazy tendrils under the soft light of a street lamp, and he leads them to a house one street over. Every room houses a family, mothers, fathers, and grandparents with drawn but brave faces for their children who play in hallways or sit quietly huddled in groups. Their clothing is frayed, there are possessions piled up by the doorways, and there is an air of desperation about the place.

Vanessa has come to speak with a number of families who have travelled across borders, through Switzerland to flee Austria, where months ago they were caught up in violent attacks on Jewish businesses, synagogues and homes. Myka is horrified by the terror still so clear in their eyes as they recount their experiences, one man sobs as he tells of seeing his brother beaten to death. These people are the lucky ones, aided by pure luck or by the support of countrymen and women who helped them hide and escape. 

When they are in the car again, Vanessa puts it into gear and says, “Back home, the land of the free...too few want to help these people, don’t want them _invading_ ,” her eyes glint under the internal car light which Myka flicks off, “they need to see that that is not right.”

The following day is a Saturday, and for the first time Vanessa takes her to the newsroom where she types up and files her features. The space takes up the first floor of a modern fronted building with a steel facade, in stark contrast to the Baroque style building it sits alongside. Vanessa strides into the room without hesitation, Myka stumbles but quickly recovers to keep pace, and she is struck immediately why Vanessa does this. The room is noisy, rows and groups of desks, all occupied by men. Men fighting with typewriters, rapid fire chattering on telephones, rushing along aisles with flailing bits of paper clutched in their hands. The air is warm and cloying with the smell of tobacco, grease and the faint whiff of methylated spirits - it’s a far cry from the sedate, quaint offices of the Colorado Springs Gazette. 

In the office of one of the editors, Myka stands to the side while Vanessa argues with him about the merits of an article highlighting the plight of refugees fleeing persecution. He is unmoved, but she persists, and he reads part of what she’s written so far, then nods. 

“I’ll circulate it with the main dailies, I know a few editors who may run it,” he says, then sighs and tips his head at Myka, “please be careful, Vanessa, dragging your friend to places that aren’t safe. It’s going to get worse.”

Vanessa scoffs, laughing as she hitches a thumb at the newsroom, “Would you be saying the same to any of those boys out there?” 

As they are walking back through the room, Vanessa speaks behind her hand, “You have to be absolutely sure and confident, they smell hesitancy a mile off,” and she laughs quietly when Myka straightens her shoulders. 

Myka says, “I was a little frightened last night, but I’m glad you took me along,” Vanessa’s face has resumed it’s usual neutral state, “it was horrifying, but I am ashamed to say I feel good today. You are right that someone has to act and speak for those who can’t.”

Vanessa’s face softened momentarily, “Precisely, and I fear this war is going to need our services in more ways than one.”

Those words would come back to Myka with more frequency in the years to come, especially when she’d stepped out onto the street after meeting with Vera Atkins. The stark reality of their situation, the threat to people's dignity, liberty and even life had made Myka feel sick for the simplicity of what she used to call home, but also determined not to sit idly by.

\----

_**May 1942** _

For all that she likes her comforts, dislikes the assault course, and avoids running when not absolutely necessary; Helena takes great satisfaction in rousing their charges at 5am for an impromptu trek into the wilderness of the English countryside. This is particularly true when it involves a cast iron frying pan and wooden spoon being brought together with joyful force, as she yells instructions, in French, along the bedroom corridors. Crowley, McShane and Darby are of course outside in the courtyard, but this was one toss up she was glad to have won. 

Their charges were given five minutes to be out on the yard, whether dressed or not, and to their credit all manage to make it fully dressed in their respective uniforms - with boots and coats either on or dangling over their shoulders. In one of the barns, they are told to collect a range of supplied - tents, sleeping gear, and a few essentials. They are split into four groups, each led by an instructor. Helena supposes she has a good group, had even allowed herself a chuckle when ‘America’ seemed to waver between a scowl and a smile when her name was called out by McShane. She, Lizzie Newman, Finch and Beekman were all dedicated types for various reasons. Lizzie and Beekman’s sheer enthusiasm, Finch’s quiet stoicism and Bering’s eagerness to please coupled with what Helena knew was a determination born of having been in France during the occupation. Helena recognised the same in herself. No matter what she had done or not done, Myka had experienced things, things that may have hit close to home, enough to want to go back. 

They trek for hours with Helena leading the way, and stop to eat before midday, after which she pulls out a map and compass then gives them a landmark they must reach before the sun starts to set. Surprisingly, it's Lizzie who takes the lead, her matter of fact, “Girl Guides” explanation delivered while studying the map and the horizon ahead. They end up pitching tents a few hours before sundown. They're exhausted, but Helena has them gathering firewood and kindling, and after a deliberately brief demonstration they all attempt to make campfires.

Helena watches as everyone but Myka is cultivating the beginnings of a fire in the dusk light. She is cursing under her breath - keeping even that up in French, Helena notices with satisfaction - furiously rolling an elderberry twig between her fingers with little finesse. Helena stoops down opposite, quickly placing her hands flat over Myka’s, stilling them before she wastes more energy on a futile exercise. 

“Here” she murmurs, “Let me…”

Myka grunts, staring at their hands still layered together at the top of the stick, “I’m getting there, give me a chance.”

“Myka, your technique is not quite there,” Helena insists, “Let me just…”

She releases Myka’s hands briefly, only to prise them apart gently, and reposition them so that they are palm to palm against the stick rather than the flats of her fingers. Myka’s hands are cold and smooth, so Helena leaves her own rough yet warm palms pressed there as she speaks, all the while focussed only at the task between them.

“Back and forth, with downward pressure,” she says insistently, and moves their hands in an opposing rolling motion, “Only your palms, to retain control.” 

Increasing the speed now, she chances a glance at Myka whose cheeks are pinked, and there is a look of pure determination on her face. Helena removes her hands but holds them either side as Myka drills the stick faster, pushes down, brings her hands back to the top and repeats, and repeats. It’s a little mesmerizing, watching those hands, in a way that has little to do with creating friction to generate smoke and ember.

“There!” Myka suddenly cries, childlike, “Smoke!”

Helena almost mocks her in jest, but stays her tongue. Myka is clearly used to being good at most things, or rather, striving to be better, so there’s no need to make her feel worse than she already did.

“A little longer, good,” she says quietly so as not to startle, “Now - gently, the smoking ember - transfer it to your kindling.”

Myka’s eyes never leave her task while Helena observes in silence, not realising her own breath is caught, only vaguely aware of the rustling of the others around their camp ground. Myka carefully lifts the bark on which the ember gently smokes, places in into her ball of dry grass, then pushes her lips out to blow into it’s centre. When the tinder flares up, Myka drops it onto her pile of twigs and the flames spread. Only now does she look up, eyes bright with triumph and joy.

“Thanks” she exhales, and Helena swallows. 

A voice from behind Helena breaks her momentary haze.

“You did it, Myka!” Lizzie exclaims.

“It seems us Brits are better at some things, hey, America?” Helena says, returning to a tease to put them on their usual footing, and sure enough Myka’s eyes narrow.

“I’ve got that down pat, now, you watch!” and she looks down again, picking up her stick and grooved piece of wood to prove her point.

Later, they are all sat around a single fire. Tents pitched, stomachs full as they can be on tinned baked beans and bread, hot drinks in hand. Helena is sat between the two men, with Lizzie and Myka opposite, and she pulls out a hip flask to offer a dash of something stronger for their drinks. There are a few raised eyebrows but no-one refuses. She's pleased with the day, aside from a few grumbles and blisters, the group have worked well together and so far, Helena hasn't noticed any lapses in the use of French to communicate.

“Why do I feel like we've had it easy today?” Lizzie says with a sigh, looking pointedly at Helena, who smiles, because yes - tomorrow will bring further tasks, but they are on a holiday in comparison to what awaits those who continue to the next stage.

She chuckles “You have, Lizzie darling, but honestly - when you've just spent a day in a classroom with Crowley, purely on map reading, you should be glad of traipsing through muddy fields and sleeping on hard ground!” 

They laugh and then Finch suddenly speaks, as if he's been building up the courage. 

“It's what I did, before” his eyes dart around the group, because he's lightly dipping into territory that by unspoken agreement they don't. “Teach, I mean. French and Geography actually.”

Lizzie of course is the one to break the silence before it becomes uncomfortable.

“Oh, Mr Finch you should've asked Crowley for a pass, I'm betting you were bored rigid in that class!”

He laughs guiltily, “You too, Girl Guide...” and Lizzie shrugs.

“I learnt some good tips, it did seem rather a long day though.”

Helena knows Crowley can be an insufferable bore, but he is very good in his specialisms and she feels the need to backtrack from her early comment.

“Vincent Crowley may be a little full of himself,” she hears a few muffled snorts, “And I know I have had a laugh at his expense, but you'd do well to heed what he says. We’ll see how well you were paying attention, tomorrow,” she promises.

“Sorry,” Finch mutters, pushing his spectacles up over the bump in his nose, “I was hoping to move the conversation to something other than survival, maps….and cows…” he trails off as the low rumbling sound of a ‘moo’ in the adjacent field interrupts him.

There are a few giggles, and no-one bites, until Myka suddenly breaks her silence. 

“Journalist. I was a journalist,” she says wistfully. 

“You miss it,” Lizzie nudges Myka’s shoulder with her own, then frowns “but why aren't you doing that now, there's plenty of news about, I'd say?”

Myka glances fleetingly across the flames at Helena, who finds herself studying the American’s response closely. The shadows thrown by the fire give her face an ethereal quality, and she suddenly seems to be elsewhere.

“It was in France,” she states, shrugging, “I’ve only been in England since December just gone.”

All of them except for Helena are suddenly asking questions, Beekman even lapses into English before quickly correcting himself. Myka holds her hands palm up, and Helena is the only one who sees the flash of wariness cross her features, as she clearly regrets her revelation.

“Hold up!” Helena says firmly, loudly, “It is true Myka has shared a detail of her life, but she's not obliged to answer any of your questions.”

Myka’s eyes send an unspoken thanks, then she clears her throat, “I honestly don't know why I said that, because...well,” she shakes her head, straightens her posture, resolved. 

“I can't not answer any questions now - so here's a deal - one each.” She nods as she says this, as much to herself as to the people around the fire. 

Helena senses that Myka does indeed feel obliged, but instead of intervening again, she pulls a rough blanket around her shoulders, and leans back slightly from the flickering light so she can watch the group, and listen.

Beekman seems to sense Myka’s unease, and sticks to the safe topic of her job, “So, what type of articles were you writing and for which paper?” he asks with genuine enthusiasm.

“Technically, two questions but I'll forgive you,” Myka smirks briefly, and picks up a stick to poke at the fire. “I had been writing feature articles, lifestyle, entertainments, occasionally fashion,”

Lizzie squeaks, itching to ask a question of her own, but she holds her tongue, and not for the first time Helena struggles with the idea of sending such a young, free spirit into the field. She is so very capable, though, and that will be her downfall.

Myka continues, “But then, clearly, circumstances changed, so demand changed and I started doing more current affairs. The Associated Press - that's who I filed articles with, so they made their way into some or all of the major papers back home, I guess.” 

She's underplaying, Helena knows, because of course she has read Myka’s file. It doesn't contain everything much to Helena’s frustration, but it does indicate that shortly after the formation of the unoccupied zone, Myka and other such professionals had been approached to assist with information gathering for her own government. So, she is underplaying her role, but what is key is she is being discreet.

“Were you in Paris?” Lizzie finally gasps out.

Myka smiles, and it's almost as bright as the one she’d flashed Helena when she's met them at the train station. “For a time, yes.” 

Lizzie growls, and Myka teases, “I answered your question Lizzie!”

“Oh, but when, what was it like?” 

“For a time, it was wonderful. I had never seen anything like it, being from _Colorado_ n’all,” she drawls, and gains a laugh. 

Helena laughs too, because while she knows where Myka has been, some of her past, she hasn't heard her talk about it up until now. When Myka starts describing the architecture, the arts, the lifestyle, Helena feels a sudden sadness washing over her, and before she knows it she is speaking.

“I have a question,” she wistfully says, and all eyes turn to her, though she hasn't leant forward so her face is in semi darkness, “did you ever take a nighttime cruise along the Seine?”

Myka stalls, blinks, and with a tight smile says, “Just the once,” before resuming her vivid yet understandably impersonal description of Paris.

Helena isn't sure what happened in that moment, but once again she's reminded of herself -when she is pressed too hard about her past. Forgetting is sometimes the best way to cope, in the short term at least. Long term she will forget nothing - the very embodiment of remembering always awaits her at home now. She smiles at that, then settles back to listening as this small group bonds a little over the parts of them they are willing to share with strangers. 

\-----

Following three nights out, they return just after lunchtime on the fourth day, cold, weary and looking forward to a real bed. Having sent the groups off to wash the gear and indulge in the luxury of running water, the instructors meet to discuss their charges. 

“I don’t want any failures,” Crowley growls, only ten minutes in, “the powers that be, myself included, need more agents in the field, that is the truth of it.”

McShane, to his credit, stands his ground and Helena agrees with his assessment. McShane insists, “Two poor agents could jeopardise a whole network and more, Vincent.” 

He doesn’t remove the two fingers resting over the photographs of Rake and Lawson, isolated from the rest of the images laid out on the table, and Crowley sighs. 

“We are barely at the halfway point, there’s time,” he pauses, “look, we’ve had agents in France a year now, success has been limited but there’s a real feeling the situation is improving - with the Germans now occupying the South too, it’s sewn more discontent into the local population.”

He is right, about opportunities on the ground, her contacts elsewhere have said as much, and with the Americans wading in now, and the Russians in the East, well - resistance in occupied territories could have a big impact if used correctly. 

“I sincerely doubt we can do much about Rake’s attitude, Vincent,” she says.

“We are instructing as well as assessing here,” Crowley says, “they stay to the end, and we shall revisit all candidates.”

At the end of debrief, Crowley places a hand on Helena’s arm where it rests on the table. 

“A moment, Wells,” and she sighs when she sees McShane and Darby share a glance as they leave the room. 

“Vincent,” she warns, pulling her arm away.

“Helena,” he says, running the rejected hand over his slicked back hair, he smiles then sighs. “This is a proposition of a different kind. Though...I’m still open to exploring our-”

She scoffs, “How is your wife, Vincent? Still helping the hospital war effort?” 

He coughs, embarrassed and, astonishingly, angry judging by the way he grits his teeth. 

But he doesn’t respond to the comment and ploughs on, “Myself, Darby and McShane have supplied information to each of the male candidates, I need you to try and extract it from them.” 

She rubs a finger against the jawline under her ear and fixes him with a glare, “Vincent, no,” she says, “as with the last time, I’m not playing at honey trap for you, that is not my job.”

“Ah but Helena you are uniquely qualified as far as I’m concerned. Besides, I would suggest this may be an ideal opportunity for you to convince me of your assessment of Mr Rake in particular.”

Something about his tone was far too smug, “Crowley...” she grinds.

He says, “Buckmaster agrees. I’m not sure he and Vera would be happy if you failed to fully assist in the assessments, Helena.’

He’s leaning across the table, talking in low tones as he does so, and Helena looks away in time to see that the door is still slightly ajar. She catches sight of a figure passing by, their plain blue dress rustling slightly as they hurry away, and she wonders just how useful Crowley’s little test may prove to be. 

\---

Myka regards herself in the mirror above the small sink in her room. Her face is thinner than usual, but ruddy, and for the first time in what feels like an age she has left her hair loose, held away from her face by a few strategically placed clips. It had been decided, when they were all working together in the barn after spending days away from the house, that tonight they would all congregate in the parlour room with a bar for a bit of social time. Some of the women are wearing frocks tonight, wanting to feel normal again. After thinking she would stick to the practical trousers and blouse she had been wearing, she’d eventually settled on a favourite green dress - trimmed white, and with buttons from the high ‘V’ above her cleavage down to the hem. She flattens the trim at her neck, satisfied, and takes a deep breath. Myka doesn’t want to get drawn into conversation that touches on sensitive topics tonight, but she does want distraction. 

A few hours later, Myka is nursing a glass of pale ale, playing Gin Rummy with a pile of matchsticks at stake. She’s at a table with Mary, Lizzie, a Czech named Denise who had challenged them to the game, and even Helena. Helena who is in a red polkadot dress, cinched at the waist, her hair also down, but pinned into a long roll to one side, dark ends touching a shoulder. It is a very different look to the one Myka first saw on her, and she thinks that no matter the outfit, Helena Wells will be stunning.

She is surprised that the instructors are there, and seemingly just as inclined to partake in a drink. She’s noticed Crowley looking over to their table a few times with barely concealed annoyance, and she’s fairly certain that Helena is the object of his chagrin. She appears oblivious, but Helena sees everything in the room, Myka is sure of it. Very quickly, Helena has the women at the table at ease, she has built up a conspiratorial air with them, and they trust her with titbits about their lives. She doesn’t seem to expect Myka to share, though, because while including her in the conversation, Helena doesn’t ask her direct questions. 

Lizzie jumps up the minute the Home Service news transmission ends, and she bounds to the bar where the walnut polished wireless sits in the corner against the wall. 

“Finally!” she exclaims, and fiddles with the dial until she finds the only other station broadcast in Britain since the war started.

The sounds of an evening variety show float across the room, and Myka both loves and loathes to listen. She absorbs everything from the the daily news summaries, whilst aware that what the public is told will be carefully controlled. The playful comedy sketches and music hall tunes serve to remind her she is definitely in Britain, that is, if the penchant for cake and tea did not. It is the jazz and swing standards, however, that can evoke memories without warning, of Sam, of Vanessa, of that brief year in Paris. Tonight, she is out of luck.

A jaunty trumpet and a woman’s high, sweet, carefree song take her away for a moment. Down steps to a dark, smoky, crowded club, where men and women appeared truly at ease in their own skin, and the same sensuous woman sang of love and longing.

“I saw her perform, once,” Myka says, and just like at the campfire a few nights ago, she regrets her words the moment they leave her lips. 

Lizzie sits back down, mouth agape, while Mary seems puzzled. Helena gives her an appraising look, as though coming to a kind of realisation. 

“You saw Josephine Baker” she states, and Myka nods. 

“A...friend,” Myka remembers Vanessa’s excited face when she told Myka where there were heading that night. “A very good friend got us into the club where she was performing...it was an experience.” 

“I heard that she was rather risque,” Helena says with a hint of amusement in her tone. 

“Yes, just a bit,” Myka laughs, “the whole place was mesmerised, she had this...presence,” her eyes flit up to find Helena's eyes on her, dark and curious, “hard to not be drawn in…”

Helena purses her lips together, “Hmm” but says nothing more. 

Myka blinks, clearing her mind of the feelings the memory evokes and the look the woman opposite is giving her. She turns to Lizzie, “I have a feeling that you would have loved the clubs there.” 

“Maybe one day,” Lizzie says, “but, do you know, I haven’t visited any clubs in London, maybe we could go when we are finished here?”

Myka agrees, but in truth she is unsure what will follow their weeks here. She has a job to return to, and lodgings, but they have been told nothing of what may happen at the end of this stay. 

“I know of a few,” Helena suddenly says to the table, where Mary has sat quietly throughout and Denise has just returned will more drinks, “My brother and I would frequent some of the backstreet establishments when we were younger, the type that in Paris would be more commonplace, but in London…” she laughs, “...well, they are a little more liberal, those Parisians…” 

Myka finds herself smirking down into her drink. There is certainly common ground in their experiences, and Myka thinks that she will at some point take up Wolly’s suggestion and speak with Helena about her time in France. Right now, Helena has picked up the cards again and is dealing them out.

“Right, time to win back my matchsticks!” she declares, quickly glancing over to where a few of the men are stood. 

Under an hour later, Helena has abandoned them and is stood with Jack Rake and Wolly at the bar. Myka is returning from grabbing a cardigan from her room when Helena's full bodied laugh causes her to look across, and she feels the tug of a smile as Helena offers her a playful wink before turning her attention back to the men stood with her. Helena says something to Wolly, and moments later he strides over to catch Myka as she’s sitting back down.

“Helena says that none of the ladies at this table know how to play poker?” he questions amiably.

“That is _because_ we are ladies,” Mary deadpans, and before Wolly can stumble over an apology, Myka pulls a chair out for him. 

“Sit. She’s pulling your leg,” Myka says, while Mary scowls in jest, “thank you for your kind offer Wolly, I presume you _were_ offering to teach us?”

He clears his throat, “Well, yes...and Helena suggested…” 

Mary passes him the deck, and pats his arm, “Let’s see then, if you can teach us well enough to beat you another day?”

They’ve had a number of drinks by now, everyone is more at ease in each other’s company, and the poker lesson is fun. Myka finds she has to force herself not to glance in Helena’s direction more than she feels she should. Helena has taken a cigarette offered and lit by Rake, and a few more strands of dark hair have come loose, which she frequently tucks behind an ear, before resting a palm against her collarbone. Myka knows Helena is quite at home in the company of both men and women, she didn’t appear to filter her words to massage egos, she was attractive and confident. So seeing her flirt with Rake and Lawson, who has joined them at the bar, feels a little like Helena is demeaning herself, because she’s only ever shown a professional interest in either of them before now. It doesn’t sit well with Myka despite the smiles all round - or maybe it’s because of them. 

Mary leans in to Myka, and startles her with a whisper, “She’s testing them,”

Myka feels a warm flush at the base of her neck, grateful that Mary isn’t actually looking at her, but is also observing the small group at the bar. Mary seems so sure, but minutes later when Helena touches Jack Rake’s elbow and leads him out of the room, Myka feels something like disappointment in the pit of her stomach and she isn’t sure it’s a test at all. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 9-10 Nov 1938 became known as Kristallnacht when riots across Nazi Germany and Austria were used to deliberately persecute and destroy the lives of the Jewish population. There were many deaths and thousands were arrested to be sent to concentration camps.  
> \- Josephine Baker became a French citizen in 1937, in part due to the segregation and racism she was met with in the US. Strictly speaking she wasn’t in Paris when our Myka is, she was on tour. If you aren't aware of her life story check it out -another pretty interesting and incredible woman.  
> \- The so called 'honey trap' was apparently employed for a time in assessing agents who were plied with alcohol and charmed into revealing secrets. Until it was realised that it was just too easy, and they were losing too many well trained, brave agents as a result.  
> \- so yeah, that historical accuracy thing...it's still a thing


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more Helena backstory, to an extent it backtracks into some detail of what we already know. Plus more B&W interaction...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, long time no post! In hoping to post every two weeks, I failed to consider recent holidays, plus how busy and draining work has been recently. I've struggled with this chapter, it feels unbalanced, but I hope it seems like there's progress to the reader. Actual plot will come eventually....

_**August 1940**_

It's been the hottest day she can remember since returning to Paris to work for her grandfather. Helena pulls a rag from her rear trouser pocket and swipes it around the back of her neck then down between her breasts, while puffing a breath of air up into her face. It doesn't help. She's on the shop floor, alone but for around a dozen men and women holding an impromptu meeting further up the production line, now that the workforce has left for the day. It's only the third day the factory has been back operating - it's running at half capacity due to bomb damage and they've had to lay off some staff temporarily, but it's a start. 

She finishes cleaning her tools, placing them in a worn brown leather bag as she does so, satisfied she has another honing machine back in commission. All the while she’s eavesdropping the gathering and rolls her eyes as she listens to the men, talking far too loudly, indiscreet and oblivious to anything but their little bubble of frustration. Under discussion are orders put in place by the occupying force, who have made efficient haste to exploit local resources, for which Helena has a grudging admiration.

She thinks back to whispered conversations at the kitchen table in her grandfather's house, when she, her grandmother, and Serge had eventually persuaded him to meet the lead German engineer. That deference had pained him, on the promise of resistance at a later date, and here they were a month later, any thought of such action being put into jeopardy by loose tongues. Helena flings her bag over her shoulder and straightens her tool belt, before strolling along the aisle to pass directly by the group.

Serge is visiting another factory South-East of the region, or she suspects he would have gotten wind of this little gathering before it could happen. Heavy set and bearded, Alain was a particularly good foreman, however part of that was his ability to loudly communicate down the length of a production line. Unfortunately, he appeared to have no discernible volume control. 

“I for one, will not sit idly by and let the Hun take everything we’ve worked for,” he seethes, encouraged by murmurs of agreement. 

Helena can't not intervene. For one, these people will put anyone associated with the factory in very real danger, and secondly is in her nature to do so when she spies idiocy in action. They haven't even noticed her, so when she stops and hisses at them to be quiet, they spin in surprise, it would be comical if she weren't so bloody angry.

“ _What_ do you think you are doing? All of you?” she scans their faces - a mixture of shock, contrition and affront at being interrupted by this Englishwoman. 

A few of them twitch unhappily but who she is carries some weight it seems. Yes, she is Arnaud Fournier’s granddaughter, but she is also the woman who for the past nine months has been helping improve the factory; maintaining machinery and contributing to designs that had brought new business in. 

“Gentlemen, and ladies, you may think you are being discreet by meeting here, but eyes and ears are everywhere,” speaking quickly and quietly, she looks pointedly up at the windowed offices above. “Please, cease this until you find a better location,” she curses under her breath, but then a young man steps forward and she recognises him as a friend of Serge’s.

“You’re right, of course, Mademoiselle Wells,” he says, quickly raising his hand to stem the surge of protestations from a number of the men. “Please enlighten us as to where we should conduct our work meetings...” 

It could be seen as a challenge, but his tone is light, he’s asking for advice without sarcasm or malice. 

She sighs, “Not twenty steps that way is a spot unseen by those offices, but also at the furthest point from any doorway. Not perfect by any stretch, but an improvement on _this_.” she waves her free hand at their uneven circle, and drops it to her hip, feeling the scratch of rough linen trousers against her palm. 

Pierre, she has remembered his name, turns to the group, “She has a point,” he laughs uneasily in the face of more senior figures, “Let’s leave it for tonight, yes? I’m sure our loved ones are wondering where we are?”

There are grumbles, and pointed looks, but to her surprise they disperse, leaving Pierre and Helena alone. He shrugs, “Thank you for intervening, I’d tried to say something but was ignored.” 

She smiles, “Well, glad to be of service, bloody idiots…” 

He laughs, ‘“Serge says you aren’t afraid to speak your mind,” he flattens back a thick lock of brown hair that’s fallen across his face.

She gives him an appraising look, he’s younger than she initially thought, not yet twenty. 

“Serge talk too much, as well,” she smirks, switching her bag to the opposite shoulder before walking to the exit. 

Pierre stumbles alongside, “Let me carry that for you…” 

He’s sweet with his bookish, fresh faced attempt at chivalry, but she shoots him a glare that says in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t want or expect that at all. 

 

A week later, Helena is sat back at the boardroom table with Serge and her grandfather. The records for the Chief of Engineering & Design’s schedule will show it’s a meeting regarding rebuilding a damaged section. In truth, they are discussing the group gatherings that have been happening. 

“Pépère, I am not disagreeing with the sentiment, only the rather ineffectual method,” Helena voices concern, but her grandfather’s loyalty to his workers and shared wish to rail against the occupiers blinds him to the issue at hand. 

“I am proud they are making a stand, and content for them to use the factory to meet,” he says tiredly, his voice wavering, “remember Helena - it was you who persuaded me to let the Hun in.” 

“Forgive me Pépère, but that was an inevitability. And, they are not so much making a stand as gossiping and whining, with no clear goals,” she sucks in a breath, “they need a leader, they require actions.” 

She looks at Serge, they’ve discussed this beforehand, agreeing that the men wouldn’t follow Helena easily, but Serge - who worked on the floor before moving up, may just have the respect required. Helena has ideas and is astute enough to insert herself into the group and advise and instruct on how to implement them. Arnaud Fournier sees the silent communication between his granddaughter and Serge Allard, and while it pleases him on one level, it does not on another. 

“A go slow,” her grandfather says, “I’ve been considering the logistics, how to cloak it for as long as possible.” 

Helena’s eyes spark, “It’s a start,” and she thinks they may have got through to him.

“But Helena, you will not become involved, Serge can speak with them but I don’t want you in danger,” 

She wants to scream, even though she expected this. Instead of persuasion and pleas, she opts for defiance, because it’s called for. 

“You can’t stop me,” she says with vigour, “I have good ideas, and I am not going to sit by and watch them wasted, and watch the Germans catch on because of incompetence.” 

Her grandfather, it seems, was expecting her response and he actually laughs. “Just like your mother, and Mémère. Stubborn,” he says, “But very clever and determined.” 

Once organised, the go slow is effective for a time, workers triple check their own work to ensure the absolute highest quality, perfectly acceptable parts are rejected as inferior and must be wasted and replaced. Members of the production line frequently ask questions of their supervisors, requiring a machine to be paused, or a new procedure to be agreed and this of course must all be in writing. Helena is particularly talented at explaining any and all of these changes to Hauptmann Bader, the German officer left in charge of monitoring the factory. He is not the most perceptive man she has ever met, content with a daily update with Helena and her clipboard, while the soldiers under his charge appear happy to be on this assignment. It is a comfortable existence having fought their way across Poland and into France. They patrol and monitor activity, they are fed and they have free time to spend in the city. 

Late in the month, Helena is walking back to her office having left Bader outside having a smoke following their morning tour. Pierre is at his station drilling boreholes into flat panels for the soldier transport vehicles they are building, and he stops what he is doing to call her over, waving his cap in the air. 

“Mademoiselle Wells!”

She comes to a halt, “Pierre, is something wrong?” 

He shuffles, beckoning her to an access panel, “It doesn’t feel to be running as smooth as usual,” he says, a little too loudly and Helena winces, but plays along. 

“Show me,” she says, giving him a stern look. 

He blushes, “Sorry, sorry, but tonight, 8pm Rue Marman,” 

Helena is making a show of inspecting the mechanism just inside the panel, and she looks back at him in exasperation, but nods. He is full of youthful enthusiasm but naive with it, though Serge is less concerned for him, saying it’s healthy for him to make his own mistakes. Helena thinks war time is not the environment for such freedoms. 

She straightens, and turns to leave, “It merely needs oiling, I think you can manage that alone?” 

That evening Helena meets Pierre and three older men as agreed. Dressed in dark clothing, scarf wrapped tightly about her neck and mouth, she questions what she is doing out on the streets not long before curfew starts. Curiosity perhaps, or simply because she was asked and felt the need to check what at least one of their young workers is getting involved with. The group must work fast in the fading light before the risk of capture is imminent, and the back streets of the city provide cover to an extent - Helena pairs up with Pierre, a Paris native who knows the district like the back of his hand. They swiftly move through streets dotted with Nazi posters on lampposts, on postboxes, on the doors of businesses - extolling the virtues of the German soldier as a protective force, or aiming to recruit men to work in German factories. Propaganda has been ongoing from the moment the invaders set booted feet in the city, but as yet the only way to retaliate was to vandalise, any resistance forces too fractured to organise effective counter propaganda. 

Helena furiously scribbles with a crayon on a poster depicting a friendly German soldier casually interacting with local women and children, and again questions her sanity. When Pierre urgently hisses a warning from his vantage point, Helena hears before seeing the rumble of many feet pounding the cobblestones. Barrelling round the street corner is a crowd of teenagers, they are not much younger than Pierre himself, a rag tag bunch stylishly dressed and Helena suspects they are university students. They are fleeing, chanting as they do so, _’Libertie! Libertie!’_ , seemingly giddy on adrenaline. Hot on their heels are two grey shirted soldiers, rifles in hand, and one of them fires into the evening air as they skid round the corner.

Helena calculates quickly, she is clearly older than the group they are pursuing, but she and Pierre, who is now by her side, are stood fairly close to a newly vandalised poster. She grabs him by the lapels of his coat, pulling him into a shop doorway,

“Kiss me,” she murmurs, and he splutters, eyes full of panic. She rolls her eyes, spares him the shock of a kiss and hisses more firmly, “put your arms around me!” He does so, as though following an order at the factory. 

She buries her head in his shoulder and hopes the soldiers don’t even notice them. But one of them does, and halts while barking instructions at his comrade who continues on up the street. In stuttering French, he forces their attention to him and to Helena’s relief, Pierre seems to have recovered, his face betraying fear but also annoyance at the disruption. Helena speaks for them, all the while clinging to her supposed beau.

“Please, we are only walking home, I was so scared by them!” she points in the direction the teenagers have fled, but the soldier leers at her, then addresses Pierre while pointing with the barrel of his rifle. 

“The poster, who did this?” 

Pierre starts to shake his head, “I don’t...we were…”

“I saw,” Helena says, dipping her head and looking up at Pierre, “When you drew me off the street, I saw. It was one of them - a boy with a scarf around his face,” 

She can see the soldier is torn, and the hard nub of the crayon she hastily shoved up a sleeve digs into her wrist where she holds Pierre’s waist. She’s positive the soldier is about to ask for their papers when there is a call from the far end of the street, and the soldier’s mind is made for him. She feels a stab of guilt at implicating others, but reasons that the fleeing group will already be in worse trouble if caught, she had to give the soldier something.

“Curfew,” he reminds them sharply, before jogging away abruptly to join his fellow patrolman. 

They make it back to Pierre’s cousins as arranged, just before the 9pm curfew time, and allows a sigh of relief to leave her lungs as she removes her layers. Pierre is quiet, and she isn’t sure if it’s shock or relief.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, irritated rather than angry, and she knows he’s referring to the lie about the poster.

“I only told him something he believed anyway,” she says, “we couldn’t afford for him to be suspicious,” 

She slips the black crayon out from it’s hiding place and places it in his hand before moving past him to the light of the kitchen at the end of the hallway. He grabs her hand before she can move further.

“Helena…” 

She recognises the eighteen year old that he is, the expression that she has seen before, and she sighs, wondering why it is that boys, men, seem so often to see and seek the same thing from her. 

“Pierre, it was a very good ruse for us to use, nothing more, I’m sure Serge would agree...” she pulls her hand from his, “Now come, let’s get a hot drink, I’m bloody freezing,” she smiles gently and eventually he smiles resignedly, a shameful blush on his cheeks. 

 

Helena joins Pierre on a few other evening operations, unconvinced the reward is worth the risk of arrest. That small group is working alone, another pocket of resistance formed in isolation and with no support network, and she has tried without success to dissuade him from the venture. The go slow at the factory lasts just over a month, until September brings a reshuffle of German command. Hauptmann Bader is reassigned, and a new officer arrives to immediately demonstrate far better understanding of how manufacturing works, and the numbers involved. 

Hauptmann Adler is tall, wiry and has the eyes of an eagle. If on the shop floor he misses nothing, and very swiftly he questioned production levels and working practices. Laying the blame on unfamiliarity with new designs and parts sufficed only for so long, and he sets target for the following month. Adler informed them that they must work at maximum capacity or there would be consequences, starting with the withdrawal of wages.

“Believe me, you do not want me to bring this to the attention of our SS-Oberführer,” he says to her grandfather, while confronting him in full view of the workers.

The following covert meeting of those coordinating action is fraught with worry. Everyone has heard tales of the SS division - the black shirts - and they do not want to encounter them. It’s agreed to meet targets, no more no less, and they take consolation for now in the fact they have at least tried. 

Serge has made some contacts with other factories in outlying districts but people are understandably wary, and he is frustrated. It’s late one night, and they are lying under a coarse wool blanket on a sofa in one of the design offices, barely dressed underneath. Their relationship has evolved into something physical more quickly than she may have let propriety allow in other circumstances. More physical than emotional, but comforting in the easy, teasing and testy way they have with each other. Helena feels life to be in a strange limbo, war at once a jarring reminder of its impermanence, but making the living of it something stuttering and false. How can plans be made with any surety, that is if she were the planning sort when it comes to relationships. She chuckles darkly to herself, despite the scowl currently forming on Serge’s face. 

“I don’t know why you are so cheerful, Helena,” he grumbles, shuffling into a seated position.

“Hardly, though I feel offended you are not little cheerful, considering…” she gestures between them, but is smiling, and he forces a quick smile before falling back into worry.

“I know you are frustrated, but Serge,” she uses her fingers to turn his face to hers, “we have to be patient, I know that is strange coming from me, but I’ve been working on some ideas…”

His eyes lighten and she presses her fingers to his lips, “For them to work, for Adler not to suspect, we need less people involved.”

They discuss her ideas and refine them before she presents them to her grandfather, whose eyes twinkle with pride as she speaks. They agree on mechanical sabotage which will reap rewards once the vehicles are in the field - far away and with the likelihood that those on the ground will be too busy to seek out the source and discover a pattern. Eventually trucks will roll off the production line with dipsticks notched incorrectly to give the impression of a full reservoir of oil, some have metal shavings left in the oil tank - both will eventually lead to engine seizure. Nuts and bolts made of softer metals are used in key areas to cause much quicker erosion and damage to vehicles pushed to their limits by the conditions and necessities of war. 

 

The risk anybody takes under this new order truly hits home one grim, wet morning. For Helena, it makes that night on the sofa with Serge, when she’d felt almost comfortable and at rest, feel like a very long time ago. It begins as every other morning, workers trudge in, remove coats and hats, put on leather aprons and set to work at their stations. Not thirty minutes later and Helena steps out onto the gantry above the factory floor when around a dozen soldiers emerge from the changing rooms where workers can change and shower. They form a line as Hauptmann Adler follows them out, a wad of paper in one hand, and she feels the pinprick of fear at the base of her neck. Her eyes dart to where Pierre is tidying his working area, oblivious to any danger. 

Adler strides to the nearest foreman and Helena watches as workers are intimidated; Adler motions to a soldier who seizes one man and shoves him to his knees. There are cries of protest, and the ripple of anxiety spreads. Pierre look across, then up and when his eyes catch hers she sees it. The panic of someone who always knew they were taking a risk, disbelief and the sudden realisation that they have been very careless. At that moment, she believes that the small shake of the head she gives to stop him from bolting and giving himself away is the best thing to do. Most likely it would be, but then Adler is walking with purpose, directing two soldiers to follow him straight to Pierre’s workbench. He is unceremoniously hoisted from his position, a soldier either side. 

Helena moves to descend the stairs, but a firm arm shoots around her waist and a hand clamps itself across her mouth.

“Don’t” Serge hisses in her ear, “wait.”

She grabs at his hand to pull it away and he does, whispering, “Quiet, Helena,”

She twists her head to speak, eyes never leaving Pierre who is being marched back to the changing rooms, stumbling as he’s pushed roughly by the butt of a rifle.

“We can’t just let them take him,” she says, 

“Pierre has a few leaflets in his possession, but there are workers in this factory sabotaging vehicles. Which do you think they would be more interested in?” he sighs, “Let’s not draw attention unnecessarily.” 

She knows he is correct, but Adler’s demeanour doesn’t sit well, and it feels so wrong to go against her instinct to take action. After five minutes she cracks, the eerie silence of the factory floor punctuated with the sounds of an interrogation. 

“I can’t just stand here,” she mutters, and before Serge can prevent her she is down the stairway, the metallic clunk of her boots startling those below. 

All eyes follow her pathway but the sound of her grandfather’s voice stops her in her tracks. 

“Helena!” she hears, “Mon trésor!” and she spins to see him striding from a corridor, a foreman scurrying behind him. 

“Pépère, they have Pierre, we have to help him…”

His eyes are sad, “Let us see what we can do,” he nods.

They are blocked from entering the room, but moments later two soldier are pulling the badly stooped figure of Pierre out into public view. He squints up into the harsh light of the factory floor, and Helena’s jaw tightens when she sees his split lip, a bloody cut above his eye and a stiff arm across his ribs. She feels her elbow briefly gripped, and then her grandfather steps ahead of her to meet Adler, who holds a hand up before either of them speak. 

“Your worker has confessed to owning and distributing propaganda lies about the Reich,” he states, “He is under arrest. We will be conducting further searches throughout the day, Herr Fournier.” 

“Hauptmann Adler…” Helena steps forward and he winces as though her voice offends him, his head turning with the forced precision of an owl. She bows her head, recognising a little humility may go a long way, “Forgive me, Hauptmann, but what is the evidence?”

He regards her for a long while, her skin crawls as he rakes his eyes from head to toe and back again.

“I will extend the courtesy this one time, as you so obviously do not know your place,” he sneers, “we have found literature in his locker, he has confessed, he fits the description of one of a number of enemies of the Reich defacing information - so graciously provided to the citizens of this city.” 

He pauses, then addresses her grandfather, “You wouldn’t be aware of any such activity being conducted by your workers, I assume?” 

Her grandfather is a proud man but he recognises a dangerous opponent, so he acquiesces with a reaffirmation of their commitment to the work and denials of wrongdoing. Helena wants to press but takes her cue from her grandfather, feeling powerless as she stares at Pierre whose eyes are fixed firmly on his feet. She questions if resisting is worth the pain of an uncertain fate, when on days such as this it feels the war is going to drag them all down until they know nothing but the dull thud of the German boot and the whims of cruel captors.

 

\--------

  _ **May 1942**_

It’s 5 o’clock in the morning and Helena can’t sleep. She’s dreamt again, of a firing squad, the feeling of suffocation, unable to protest, powerless. 

She shivers, pulls a thick dressing gown around her shoulders and tiptoes downstairs intending to make herself a hot drink, but she’s surprised to see there’s a light emanating from the kitchen already. She peaks through the door, inches ajar, and sees Myka Bering sat at the large wooden table writing. There’s a mug by her left hand, fingers tap lightly on the smooth surface and her hair is loose and draped forward over the sheet of paper she is focussed on. Helena can hear the faint scratching of a pen. Myka is wrapped in a thick tartan blanket, but the wood burning stove is on low. 

Helena draws back, then walks forward with a small cough, intending to give Myka fair warning of another’s presence. 

Myka looks up from her task, indifferent in concentration, but assuming of Helena’s purpose. “The water may still be hot enough,” she points to the kettle on the stove and looks back down.

“Thank you,” Helena says, interested in Myka’s early morning activity, but holding her tongue.

She moves about the kitchen efficiently, retrieves a mug, tea leaf and strainer then waits a short while for the water to bubble back to boiling point. She then sits directly opposite Myka, blowing on her tea, and wondering whether she should try to get another few hours in bed, but her curiosity wins out. 

“Do you often write when you can’t sleep?” she says into the silence, and Myka’s hand stills over the paper.

“No,” she says, and after a moment resumes a half penned sentence, emphatically placing a full stop at the end before putting the pen down. She looks up at Helena, makes a blind grasp for her own drink and sighs heavily. She looks drained and for the first time since they’ve been there Helena is concerned for her wellbeing. 

“You look like hell,” she states flatly.

“Thanks,” Myka squints, “you don’t look so great yourself, long night?”

It’s an innocent enough enquiry, but Helena is far from naive, she knows how last night may have appeared, but something about Myka's tone riles her.

“Not especially. Interesting though,” she sips at her tea, but Myka doesn't bite as expected, just squints further and returns to her task.

“Do you mind if I ask what it is you are writing?” Helena enquires.

“Just a letter,” Myka says without looking up.

Helena pushes, “Oh?” 

Myka sighs, puts the pen down again, her impatience surfacing and Helena takes a perverse pleasure in her exasperation. 

“You needn't worry, I’m not writing home to tell my family all about this holiday camp,”

“I didn't think you were, Myka,” Helena says, “you seem far too...clinical, for it to be a letter to people you are close to.”

“Then you don't know me,” 

“No, I don’t” Helena says, and again considers taking her tea up to bed. 

But truthfully Helena is feeling lonely, and despite her current air of borderline hostility, Myka always interests Helena. She has revealed only surface details of her past beyond a redacted file, but Helena feels a kindred spirit lurking, and for the short time they’ve known each other, Myka has been the only one to provide the spark of challenge to her authority. 

She hedges, lifts her chin up as though straining to see the script, “I may be able to help,” and she smiles to herself when she sees a flicker of irritation, swiftly followed by the calculating consideration of her words. 

Myka peers up, eyes narrowed, “How can you help if you don’t know what I am doing?”

“Precisely!” Helena says, followed by another smug sip of tea, she waits but Myka remains unimpressed.

“You have files on us, I don’t like it, but I’m pretty sure you will know more about me than you imply,”

“Actually, Myka, we are given only partial information so as not to influence our assessment at this stage,”

Myka smiles, ‘And what, precisely are you assessing us for, Helena?” 

Yes. A _spark_.

Helena raises her mug like a toast, but remains comfortably silent in the conviction that Myka and most of the candidates are intelligent enough to know why they are there. 

“My parents met on the River Seine,” Helena says suddenly, “It’s why I asked you about it when we were at camp.”

“Ok,” Myka says, and her gaze drops down as she speaks quietly to the sheet of paper in front of her, “That jarred me, I didn’t really think you could have that level of detail on me…” 

“He was there on a business trip being entertained, she was cheering up friend who had just lost her job,” Helena continues, “while the friend and my father’s business associate enjoyed a few dinner dates…”

“Your parents eventually married…” Myka concludes. 

“They took me there one anniversary, I daresay it was less romantic with an inquisitive eight year old in tow,”

Myka laughs wistfully, a sadness in her eyes that she can’t hide. 

“I am writing to the French Embassy,” she finally confides, “There’s someone I’m trying to locate, but it’s kind of difficult, being here.”

“And not over there?” 

Myka nods, and Helena shares what she knows.

“Myka Bering. You lived in Paris from ‘38, then were in the unoccupied zone for a time before the Americans joined the war. You are a journalist, approached to write coded newspaper articles, and you were friends with an American diplomat and other respected journalists. You arrived in England via Spain.” 

Helena doesn’t know much more beyond this, aside from reports of Myka’s resilience and intelligence. Myka seems surprised by her summary, but retains a healthy skepticism, and Helena has come to expect no less.

She says, with a wry smile, “I’m not sure I believe that’s the extent of your information, Helena,”  
Helena shrugs, and Myka laugh mirthlessly, “It all sounds so straightforward, hearing you say it so plainly,”

“It’s never straightforward, for anyone who ends up here,” Helena hints at her own path, but before Myka turns the tables, gestures at the pen and paper resting on the table, “The diplomat?” 

A grunt, and that smile once more, “Yeah, and that’s all you are getting,” Myka says. 

Helena wants to say, ‘I’m not wanting anything’ but it would be a lie, because in this role she is always seeking knowledge of their charges. Their lives, capabilities, their state of mind are all of importance. So instead, she doesn’t pry for details, only seeks to confirm the emotions she is sensing in this quiet introspective version of Myka. She feels it only fair to give a little of herself to do that.

“I know a thing or two about regret,” she says, watching Myka carefully, “and guilt.” 

Myka stares at her, but is unable to hide her recognition of the sentiment, “Like I said-”

“That’s all I am getting, yes, I know,” Helena says, and nods with a soft smile. “Do you want a top up before I leave you alone?” 

Myka accepts a refill, and before Helena leaves, against her better judgement she offers a crumb, “Sometimes official channels aren’t the most fruitful. I can make enquiries if you want me to. You only have to ask.” 

For a moment she believes Myka is about to burst forth with just such a request, but then her eyes cloud over and she shakes her head, “Thank you, I’ll...I’ll bear that in mind.” 

\---

The weight in Myka’s hands is smooth, cold, dangerous. An Enfield No.2 revolver takes six rounds, weighs 1.69 lbs when empty and, crucially, has a range of up to 42ft. It is reminiscent of those she has seen a scant few times on the big screen, wooden handle, deep grooved barrel, upright hammer ready to provide the fire power. But this is no prop or toy, it is a deadly weapon. Myka finds herself hesitant with it, only performing at an average in the standing target practice. While that is a source for discontent, in this instance she feels strangely proud that she does need to learn, that she does require practice. In all tasks aside from this she has performed well, surprising herself, and even tutoring those who were struggling with the coding exercises, much to Helena’s amusement. The handling of weapons has unnerved her a little because of the implications, and while proud, she is also frustrated that she let her emotion affect her performance.

Darby is lead instructor, and is adamant they need to be comfortable with any weapon as an extension of their hand. For it to be a natural action to hold it, to fire it. This is more so for those who will not often carry or expect to use a gun at all - so the one time it is required there is no hesitancy. It should be like greeting an old friend, the passage of time inconsequential to effective use, and while Myka understands this, she must work out her own way to reconcile with it. This is the first real indicator that what they are being assessed for may place them in extreme danger. This isn’t the only weapon they have become familiar with, they have fired the Enfield, Sten, the Browning, the Beretta and the Luger - using the ‘enemy's weapon against them is just as effective, Darby had said. 

For the past few days, Myka has carried this unloaded gun at all times, to hold, to hide in her pockets, to clean, to sleep with and touch as she wakes in the morning. It is both a badge of honour and a badge of shame that Darby has given to those he deems in need of this exercise in familiarity. Mary has joined her at one of the garden benches, it's a pleasant early morning and they are sat cleaning their respective weapons once more. 

“I’m not sure this is going to make my aim improve,” Mary grumbles, “I imagine if I am put in a situation where I need to use one, then I’ll use it.”

“I would prefer not to. Use it.” Myka says, methodically threading a cloth rag through each chamber, her tongue poking out in concentration at the corner of her mouth.

Mary is suddenly stern, “No, but the enemy would, don’t forget it.”

“You sound just like Darby,” Myka laughs off the sudden seriousness, “but yes, I get that, I do. We should request extra practice sessions.”

Mary’s face relaxes, “Yes, we should, let's see if by some miracle we are crack shots today, and if not…” 

Myka smiles, “If not, I’ll do the asking,” she smirks, and they settle back into an easy silence.

As she has done for the past few days, Myka finds her mind wandering back to her early morning conversation with Helena, who had entered the kitchen bleary eyed but seemingly unsurprised by Myka’s presence. She had made a tea while running hands through hair mussed by sleep, and once sat opposite Myka, she appeared fully aware - enough to irritate Myka at any rate. But as is her wont, Helena had encouraged Myka to reveal more than she wished to, and by the time she’d left Myka to her task, had dangled a tempting offer of assistance. It has Myka questioning Helena’s motives but also whether she can allow herself not to take up the offer. She remembers Helena working the room the night they’d returned from their outdoor expedition, the way she had led Jack Rake away from the bar, how it had bothered her.

“What do you make of Helena?” she suddenly asks Mary, because Wolly’s view is clearly starry eyed, and her own is difficult to pinpoint with words. 

“Ms Wells?” Mary cocks and releases the hammer of her Enfield repeatedly for a moment, then places the gun flat on the bench. “I like her, she often has an encouraging word, she’s on our side - us women I mean,” 

“She’s good at her job,” Myka says, and Mary nods.

“I would like to ask her about her exploits, but - same as any of us,” Mary shrugs, “I imagine she won’t want to talk about it.” 

“No, I imagine not,” Myka says, though remembering Helena’s easy recounting of her mother and father’s romantic meeting, and her quiet admittance of harbouring regrets. 

Mary suddenly grimaces, “I don't know how she puts up with bloomin’ Crowley though, makes my skin crawl.”

“Oh?” Myka says, surprised, because while yes Crowley is pompous and controlling, she hasn’t felt particularly threatened by him and she doesn’t imagine Helena is someone easily intimidated.

“Having Helena charm the gentlemen, shall we say…” Mary says, equally surprised it seems by Myka’s reaction, “I overheard them, I mentioned it the other night?”

Myka vaguely recalls Mary talking at their table but then she was distracted at the time, and she throws a questioning look across table. 

“You must’ve had a few too many Myka,” Mary laughs, “Crowley virtually ordered her to test out the men - if she could prise out sensitive information from them.” 

“Oh,” Myka says again, and wonders to what lengths the prising would go and whether Helena is attempting a similar exercise with her, with shared history and offers of help over night time cups of tea. 

Mary smiles conspiratorially, “The poor sods, I mean, it would hardly be difficult for Helena, just look at her!”

“She _is_ beautiful,” Myka voices a thought she’s always had, then blanches, unsure if Mary’s meaning is the same, “but also, as we’ve said - good at her job.”

“Yes, even though she didn't want to do it,” Mary sobers, seemingly in agreement, “I don’t envy working for Crowley”

“We may end up doing so,” Myka says, and Mary nods, but after a moment shakes her head.

“No. He has his own little empire here. We’ll be moving on soon, only four days remaining remember,” Mary sighs, “My own bed, ah, now that will be welcome!”

Myka laughs with her, but doesn’t feel much joy in the thought of leaving. Her ‘own’ bed, can she name anything as such? They are days from being sent back to where they came from, and Myka finds herself worrying about failure. If she’s not asked to progress, is she bound to remain at the embassy in London, should she return to America, should she try to join another service? She thinks her preference is to revive her pleading applications to be deployed as a reporter with troops in Europe, and be content with any opportunity to come her way. The past three weeks have fed her appetite to return to French soil, because she is now absolutely sure that is the purpose behind this time spent in a country retreat, and in her heart it is what she desires and needs to do.

The following day Myka is returning from a walk to the village a few miles along the lane. She is lost in thought, having finally found time to post the letter she was writing, a letter that isn’t the first she has sent and won’t be the last. She’d almost waited until back in London in a few days’ time but decided to try her luck from a new post box. It made no sense, and yet the walk back had left her relaxed and glad to have done it.

Slipping back through a side gate and across a lawn path, she spies the jeep they arrived in on their first day. The bonnet is raised and two khaki covered legs stretch out from underneath the front of the vehicle. It is parked up by one of the outbuildings at the back of the house, and Myka finds herself detouring across the grass to say hello to the figure underneath. She is pretty confident it is Helena, who she’s had little interaction with since their early morning conversation. She walks purposefully and comes to a halt in what she imagines would be Helena’s eyeline should she look out from her prone position. It seems she does just that, for a muffled voice floats up from below.

“Whoever that is, can you pass me the short wrench that’s by my feet?” 

Myka steps round, crouchs to pick up the wrench and feels Helena shift on the ground,

“Ah, Bering,” Myka can see Helena’s head at an uncomfortable angle, her eyes peering out.

“Is it just this you need?” Myka asks, and smiles wryly, “Or is there something else you realise you should have taken under there to start with?” 

“Hmm, that will do for now,”

Myka drops down to slide the tool under the car from the side. Deciding it is easier to just lay down, she does so, unconcerned for her clothing, though it's not her own. 

“Tired, are we darling?” Helena says with a chuckle as she accepts the wrench.

“It just seemed practical,” Myka says, head now resting on her folded blue sweater, but angled to see Helena at work, “are you fixing a problem?” 

“I fancied I heard a rattle, however it’s really an excuse to tinker,” she says, as she pokes around, oily rag in one hand, wrench now in the other. 

“Uhm, and do you do a lot of that?” Myka is recalling the day Helena met them at the station, she was dressed in the same manner, oily streaks on her arms, a little grubby about her face.

“Yes, you’ve discovered my secret hideaway,” Helena confesses, and Myka turns to look up at the blue sky threatening to break through thick cotton wool clouds.

“I understand the sentiment,” She does, recognising the car tinkering for what it is - a way to either calm the mind, process a puzzle, or simply escape.

Helena stretches up into the bowels of the engine, and there’s a slight strain to her voice when she speaks, “After all, you have been on a walk for over an hour,” she says, “I saw you leave earlier, when I was gathering my tools.”

“It’s good to breath for a while,” Myka says, tipping her head back towards the house, “there’s various tournaments going on, pool, poker, you name it.” 

Helena hums, then confesses, “It may surprise you, but I can be quite the solitary creature too,” she wipes her brow, blows out a breath, “and the _men_ can be quite tiresome after a while.” 

Myka tilts her head back to the side and finds that Helena is looking at her intently, hands stilled on the underbelly of the engine. Unsure what to make of her gaze, but wanting to ask the question, she looks away again as she speaks. 

“Like Jack...Jack Rake,” she says, and glances back to see Helena’s lips in a sly smile. 

“Ah, yes. He is rather a bore,” she says, and her eyes twitch, “Oh, Myka, you think myself and Mr Rake...?” and she bursts into laughter, “Oh, no, none of the men here interest me whatsoever. Now, Wolly is a sweetheart but I’d want to tuck him up in bed with a hot water bottle much less anything else!” 

She’s still laughing, and Myka finds herself smiling uncontrollably for the first time in a long while, watching Helena catch herself before she bangs her head on the pipes above. When Helena looks over again, she eyes Myka curiously while her breath evens out.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen as wide a smile as yours, Myka Bering,” she says, then blinks before turning back to her task, “I think I’m a little giddy from oil fumes.”

Myka’s smile falters and suddenly feeling too warm, she hoists herself into a sitting position, rolls her sleeves up, then lays back down. She feels oddly reassured by Helena’s reaction, not that it should be Myka’s business what Helena does and with whom, but nonetheless. 

“Is this what you did, in Paris?” she asks, deciding to pursue what she thinks is becoming a tentative friendship, despite their professional relationship, and however brief.

“I was, I am, an Engineer by trade, yes,” Helena says, “I do miss it.”

Without thinking, Myka questions, “Wouldn’t you have been more suited to working munitions or similar over here?” 

But Helena seems unfazed, “I could have, but my knowledge of French life, the language, and other...talents,” she says darkly, “...plus family connections, led me to this life.” 

“It may be a strange question, but do you enjoy it?”

Helena sighs, “It’s not strange at all, and the answer is - some times, and some aspects - yes,” and even under the shade of the jeep, Myka spies a faint, fond smile breaking out, “...and it affords me time at home, so I am content with it for now.” 

Helena breaks out of her reverie to shoot Myka a playful expression of mild shock, “You make a good interrogator, Myka. Now let me get on before it falls dark.” 

There’s no danger of darkness falling for hours yet, but Myka takes the comment for what it is, an end to that line of questioning. She is content to listen for a moment to the sound of Helena at work, of birdsong in the trees, and the occasional loud cheer from the house. She closes her eyes, and were it not for the hard ground, she fancies she would easily drift asleep. 

Before too long it is Helena who breaks her relaxation.

“Are you going to nap there for the rest of the afternoon?”

Myka forces her eyes open, shielding them from the brightness of a white sky before a shadow falls across her line of sight and a hand is offered down. She reaches up and Helena’s firm, slightly calloused hand grips hers and pulls gently, then with more purpose to lever Myka up from the ground. She stumbles up, a little dazed and embarrassed for dozing off. Her free hand naturally reaches for Helena’s arm, the muscle of which flexes in support, and it’s a pleasant sensation, the feel of Helena’s bare skin under both hands. Myka doesn’t pull away, she tells herself she is still unsteady but Helena’s face is close, and Myka recalls the feel of Helena’s own hands over hers, rolling a wooden stick to generate heat and friction. 

“Are you ok?” Helena voice is soft and concerned.

Myka pulls her hand from the press of warm fingers and rubs the small of her own back,  
“Stiff,” she mumbles.

Helena’s mouth parts, words on the tip of her tongue, but Myka’s hazy brain pushes through the sudden awkwardness she feels, and she says the first things that comes to mind.

“The letter, I was posting it,” she gestures in the direction of the local village. 

“That is generally what you do with letters…” Helena drawls, “we are clearly working you too hard, you seem a little...disoriented?”

Suddenly conscious of Helena’s arm still in her grasp, Myka releases it, “Your offer, to enquire on my behalf…” 

It's not how she'd have wanted to broach the subject but it's done now, and Myka looks down at a black streak of oil across her palm, “Oh, damn!” 

Helena pulls a clean rag from her breast pocket, motioning as if to rub the mark from Myka’s skin; but Myka quickly takes the proffered cloth and half turns, only to see McShane trotting down from the house. His face is etched with concern, and he's waving and calling. Myka feels Helena's gaze dart away from her, so she looks across to see a furrowed brow and eyes darkened with concern. 

“Helena.” McShane comes to a halt ten yards away and points back to the house, “You have a call, it's your brother…” 

Her response is instantaneous, “He’s still on the line?” and on McShane's quick affirmative she shoots an apologetic half smile to Myka before brushing past to scurry back the way he came. 

Myka does feel disoriented, with the overwhelming sensation of being at once light and heavy as she watches Helena disappear through a doorway. She thinks it's maybe due to being woken suddenly and hauled skyward; but her senses are also attuned to the feel of smooth warm skin and a rough yet gentle hand. 

McShane has walked to the front of the vehicle to busy himself closing the bonnet.

“Family emergency,” he says, and she thinks it’s indiscreet of him to say so, but he means well, because he then kindly suggests, “Let’s tidy up here for her, shall we?” 

All Myka can do is help, and she picks up the wrench now propped against a wheel, and places it in the open toolbox alongside the jeep. Later, when she watches from a first floor window as McShane drives Helena away to the railway station, she looks down at the faint smudge still on her palm and wonders if that’s the last she will see of Helena Wells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urrrm no notes this time...I said this chapter gave me trouble didn't I. Gradually getting back in the groove.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka has to play a waiting game, before moving south in one place and north in another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my best intentions, it's looking like a chapter requires three weeks not two based on time available to write and research. However, if it's avaiable sooner, I'll post. Oh, and after a fab night out last night, I'm feeling a little delicate, so forgive any last minute editing errors!
> 
> edit: I've gone back through to insert month/yr indicators where appropriate to help with keeping track as there is currently some back and forth between present day (1942) and both backstories.

_**June 1942** _

June weather in Colorado Springs is fairly predictable. A steady pleasant heat and the ever present threat of a thunderstorm, a fair warning given when clouds brew over the mountains before they head to the plains. London, Myka has discovered, is less so, and she navigates the daily conundrum of the weather as a bumblebee would. She takes the path of least risk - by preparing for every eventuality, wearing a cardigan beneath a light jacket, a pair of precious nylons and a chiffon scarf in her bag, and an umbrella upon her arm. This is just one of the details she hones in on each morning - dressing, making up her bed, rearranging the books she has purchased from the nearby second hand store, polishing the mirror over the dressing table. All designed to provide routine as she whiles away the hours and days of the two weeks since returning from Wanborough. Right now, she is on the way back from a fruitful weekend lunch at a cafe in Southwark across the River, when a bright day suddenly gives way to a shower and she must hurry to push up her umbrella as she steps up and out of the tube station. 

Myka is reminded through Leena that although many people do so, not all welcome or even tolerate difference, even in the face of the uniform her friend wears. The first time she had ventured with Leena further than the park close to the Embassy, Myka had breezed in through the door to a small tearoom and found a window table. She had sat, unaware Leena still hovered in the doorway, while a thin faced woman looked up from tidying the counter and blanched at the sight of her companion.

“We’ve no tables, dear, sorry,” the woman had muttered to Leena and turned away, but Myka had called over, embarrassingly oblivious to the unsure eyes of other customers.

“Hey, it’s ok I got us one!” 

The woman had spun, shot a nervous glance between the two of them and sneered, “Sorry, that table is reserved, you’ll have to go somewhere else,” 

Leena had shrugged at Myka, whose face burned as it dawned on her why they were being denied service. Though she didn’t know how Leena felt about it, Myka had thrown a comment back over her shoulder as they’d walked out, “Fine, _dear_ , we’ll take our money elsewhere,” 

On the street, Myka had put a hand over her own mouth, then whispered, “I was so rude!”

“No ruder than her Myka,” Leena said dryly, “but I’m used to it, I’m sorry you had to...” she’d started to apologise for Myka’s discomfort.

“You shouldn’t be, though,” Myka interrupted, but Leena halted in the street, placing an arm on Myka’s. 

“Myka, I could be arrested for sitting on the wrong park bench in my hometown...it’s not perfect here, but it is in a sense freer, and I handle it,” she says calmly, “but thank you for caring.”

Myka squeezes Leena’s arm in return, “Paris was quite an eye opener, I met so many different people. There was, as you say, more freedom.”

“After all this is over, I demand you show me around that city,” Leena laughs, and Myka had proceeded to describe the places they would go as they’d sought another, welcoming, establishment. 

That day had been before Myka had met Vera Atkins and her course through the war had seemingly altered. More recently, Leena had noticed Myka brooding in the days since she’d returned from her trip, and suggested she do something she enjoyed to ease her apparent restlessness. Myka was easing back into writing, and that’s partly why today she was returning from an informal lunch with Leena and a new friend of hers who had arrived from Jamaica not long after the war started. 

Connie wore an ATS uniform and had an understated beauty much like Leena herself, though she had a more commanding air about her, with neatly curled hair tucked under a cap, a crisp white collar in contrast with her smooth brown skin, and highly polished black shoes. The cafe they’d been to was in an area where migrant workers from the Caribbean had begun to settle, and the owner hadn’t batted an eyelid at seeing them take a seat. In fact he’d greeted them as he did every other customer - with a toothy smile and a handshake grateful for their custom as he pulled out their chairs. Their waitress was a young girl who stammered and chewed on her pencil tip when not using it. Myka thought she left a little in awe of the three women who presented their orders with efficiency and a huge dollop of patience.

“Connie here is a no-nonsense kind of gal,” Leena said once their orders were taken.

“Have to be, Leena,” Connie tutted, then laughed all the same.

Leena tipped her head at her friend, “Back home, Connie and I are what’s called ‘ten percenters’” and she offers an extremely rare scowl, “only ten percent permitted - and segregated,” she said. 

Connie’s unit of around thirty women, all from overseas, are given duties ranging from driving ambulances, monitoring and distributing supplies and, as Connie does, operating searchlights over the city. 

“I love it,” Connie told Myka, “I never thought I’d be doing what I’m doing in a million years, and what seem like a million miles away from home.” 

“The locators do all the work,” Connie explained, “That radar finds those Nazi planes, we do the mathematics and would you look at that - searchlight and guns finding their target at the same time...” 

“Aren’t you scared?” Myka asked while knowing that what she herself is doing will lead down a dangerous path - but to be stood in a static location with increased odds of being caught in a blast - it seemed so vulnerable.

“Only as terrified as I would be stuck in the underground waiting for the ceiling to cave in on me,” Connie said ruefully and Myka found she couldn’t disagree on that score. 

-

By the time Myka is putting the key into the front door of her Camden lodgings, the heavy shower is dissipating, and she vigorously shakes her umbrella out before dropping it into the wooden coat stand. After the cafe trip, her mind is buzzing with ideas for a feature article, but she barely has time to draw breath before Mrs Cooper pops her head out into the hallway.

“Oh, Ms Bering, Myka!” she calls.

“Mrs Cooper,” Myka smiles, but plays her own waiting game, counting backwards in her head, and Mrs Cooper doesn’t disappoint.

She steps into the hall, and Myka now sees she has an envelope in her hand, and she feels a sudden surge of adrenaline. Is this what she has been waiting for?

“How was your afternoon, dear?” 

“Very pleasant, thank you,” Myka shrugs her coat off, attempting not to appear too eager, “Is that for me?” she asks lightly. 

Mrs Cooper’s eyes brighten, and she lifts the spectacles that hang from a chain about her neck, and peers at the envelope as though for the first time.

“Yes, yes it is,” she unconsciously touches the side of her hair, “A lovely young man in uniform knocked on not an hour ago and left it for you.”

Myka holds her hand out and the envelope is reluctantly placed in it, “It will only be from the Embassy I expect,” she says, hoping that will sate her landlady’s curiosity, “They sometimes deliver letters from back home.”

Mrs Cooper seems disappointed as she was when Myka returned from almost a month away, sharing only that she had been doing work with the British services as a kind of exchange with the Embassy. “Careless talk, and all, Mrs Cooper!” Myka had said, and received a nervous laugh in response. 

Myka is allowed without further ado to depart up the stairs, and she fights the urge to race up and tear the letter open because, of course, the Embassy doesn't deliver personal mail to lodgings. When she carefully slices open the envelope and scans the typed words, her eyebrows raise, and she checks the date on her calendar. In three days time she is to catch a train from Waterloo station to Scotland, and this time she will be escorted.

\----

 _ **September 1939**_

Myka has been living and working in Paris for almost a year, her life veering between mundane secretarial duties and the journalistic endeavours she now enjoys thanks to Vanessa. She has travelled out with Vanessa to meet with more refugees in increasingly desperate living conditions, and then not a few days later interviewed jazz stars of the decadent nightlife, or artists and writers residing in Montmartre. She has met many new faces, heard many stories, seen things she’d never imagined while sat on the back porch of her father’s Colorado house. It is at once freeing and terrifying. Because for Myka, the contented imagining of settling down with Sam seems further than ever, she almost feels distanced from him more than were they in separate countries.

They continue to reside in separate lodgings, so when Sam invites her to dinner - the first time they have seen each other in two weeks due to work commitments - she guiltily realises she hasn’t missed him so much as she would have thought. Their courtship has been a strange one - an easy, fun attraction when he had arrived at the newspaper with many dates stretched out over the year, before they had become more serious in both their physical and emotional relationship. She has no doubt that had they remained in America, they would be married by now, though perhaps not yet on the way to having children, because sweet Sam recognised the same ambition in her as his own.

It’s a surreal night for them to venture out, because the city is in turmoil. It is the first day of September, and the Germans have invaded Poland, breaking the false peace made with Britain. Their waiter is distracted and there’s a tense hum about the restaurant, but Sam soldiers on. 

“I made the reservation last week, I’m not changing our plans for some damn invasion,” he says and he wants her to see a joke in it but all she sees is the determined set about his jaw.

“Talk is France will be at war in days,” Myka says softly, “I don’t mind my soup being a little late…” she smiles, and wonders what has him so on edge.

Sam sighs, “France _and_ Britain,” he says, “I expect we’ll remain in Paris though.” 

They catch up on each other’s recent weeks, Myka adamant he would enjoy the clubs of Rue Pigalle.

“Myka, that district is known for, well…” he coughs, embarrassed to say it.

“It’s in the red light district, yeah, I know Sam,” she laughs, “But the music! There’s a club called _La Grosse Pomme_ , you have to admit that sounds worth a visit?”

He laughs too, “The Big Apple, really? Ok, maybe I’ll let you drag me there.”

Later that evening, he’s coaxed her to board a Seine riverboat, and wrapped up in a coat against the breeze she leans into him and he tightens his hold around her waist. 

“We’ve been here nearly a year,” he says just loud enough to be heard over the engine. 

“Yeah,” she says, “Thank you, Sam, I’m glad I came.”

He makes an odd noise and she turns her head to see his face, and his mood of determination is back. 

She’s almost afraid to ask, but she does anyway, “What is it?”

“Before we came here, I asked you a question,” he starts, “I want to ask you that same question now, Myka.”

She tries not to tense, but her body betrays her, and his hand loosens slightly. 

“Sam…”

The look in his eye stops her, “No, just..just let me say my piece,” 

“Ok”

“I know I was flippant earlier, about events today, but this is it - something that’s been coming since Hitler came to power,” he sighs, “The only thing that is certain is that war is inevitable.”

“For the U.S.?” Myka asks, interrupting.

“Not yet, and the powers that be think the Brits and French will have enough to stop him, but...”

“You don’t?” 

“Most of us at the Embassy don’t, and we’ll inevitably get drawn into it” 

Myka turns back to look out over the fast flowing water, aware of where Sam is leading, and unable to stop it either. 

“So, the point is Myka, who knows what is on the horizon for all of us,” he shuffles, so they are facing each other, and he pushes his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box. 

She looks anywhere but at his eyes now, because he is so sincere and well meaning, and she can’t work out how to stop this in a way that won’t hurt. 

“I’m not getting down on one knee, Myka Bering,” he says, and she hears the smile in his voice, “I think I know that’s not your thing. But, I would be very honoured and extremely happy if you were to be my wife. I love you, and...well I think that you love me too, so…what do you say?” 

She bites her lip and is quiet for too long. He dips his head to catch her eye, and she chokes, “Sam, I do love you…” and his eyes betray a flash of doubt, but he waits.

“I do love you,” she repeats, stalling to come up with the correct words to express _but not enough_. And Sam, being who he is, relents and spares her. 

“Why do I get a feeling of deja vu?” he looks down at the box between them, opens it, “Can I not tempt you with a diamond or two?” 

It’s stunning, the ring, and she wishes she could feel enough to even take a chance, but she doesn’t. 

She laughs softly, “It’s very beautiful Sam,” she looks him in the eyes now, can feel her own blurring with unshed tears, “But it’s not for me, you deserve the whole of someone’s love, not just part of it.” 

He closes the box, returns it to it’s hiding place, and envelopes her in a hug. 

“Why are you so understanding and patient with me?” she whispers against his cheek, feeling guilt and relief at once. 

“Because I love you, Myka,” he says, “And maybe I know you are meant for greater things, I met you too soon. Too soon.” 

After that night, they drift away from romantic attachment into friendship, and Myka finds the distinction minimal from how they had been in the past few months. The time they spend together is now not punctuated with physical affection, aside from comforting hugs, or a peck on the cheek. She can see he struggles with it, and the guilt for it never really leaves her, thought she cannot force her feelings. He will always be her first love, he was just never destined to be her last.

 

Two days after Sam’s proposal, both Britain and France have indeed declared war on Germany. The mood varies between belligerence from young men, and despair emanating from those who understand the devastating human cost of the Great War. But life goes on pretty much as usual for the large community of Americans in Paris and it isn't until May of the following year, when the Germans cross the border into France, that reality starts to hit. By the end of the month, British forces are depleted, evacuating from the beaches of Dunkirk, and the German machine is heading for Paris. 

By the middle of May of 1940, at the Embassy they are told to sit tight, the United States is a neutral party in this, but Myka feels far from neutral. This has become a home from home, the language is second nature, the culture and people have broadened her horizons. She fears for them.

After the briefing from the diplomatic officers, she meets Vanessa for coffee, but she is so unlike the Vanessa that Myka has come to know and love. She is visibly shaken and there is a permanent frown on her forehead.

“We have to leave,” she is saying as she takes frequent sips from her tea, “I can't get us out of here, even on one of those goddam flying rust buckets. We’ve waited too long, Artie’s worried about his students...,” she growls. 

Vanessa detests flying, having done it once or twice and been ill each time - ‘I'd rather spend months on a boat devoid of alcohol’ she'd said. 

Despite this, Myka says, “The Ambassador is working constantly to get more flights, and passages from all ports….but I know someone who works at Pan Am, they had a Visa issue we helped with, so I could...” 

“Oh Myka dear, do,” she says gratefully, and it's clear she's clinging to anything.

Myka is confused by Vanessa’s frantic state, but then Vanessa takes her hand, “It's Artie, you see.” 

Her fiancé is a Physicist at the University, who Myka has only met twice in passing - both times when he has been dropping Vanessa off in their car. Vanessa calls him a social hermit and she loves him despite his tendency to be unintentionally rude, insisting he’s a sweetheart once you know him.

But now, Vanessa says, “He’s Jewish” and Myka suddenly understands. They've never shared too much of their personal lives, always too interested in other people and events to truly open up to each other. Now, though, it becomes something of a regret that they haven't. 

Vanessa and Artie finally leave ten days later, Myka drives them to the airport in Vanessa's car, and when they part there are tears. 

“I can't thank you enough, Myka,” Vanessa says.

“Well I hardly did a thing…” Myka begins, but Vanessa shushes her.

“There you go again, Myka Bering, underestimating your impact on others,” she smiles through glassy eyes. “Promise me you won't do that. Promise me you will take care.”

Myka promises, “Thank _you_ Vanessa, for giving me opportunities and opening my eyes. I owe you a debt of thanks” 

Vanessa presses the car keys back into Myka’s palm, laughs.

“Consider it paid then. And take these, it’s yours, we have no use for it now,” she gestures at the car behind, where Artie is pulling luggage from the trunk. 

Myka opens her mouth to protest and Vanessa clamps a hand across it, “It is yours,” she states and then pulls her into a hug. 

When the Germans finally arrive, Myka and Sam do not join the hoards lining the streets of Paris in morbid fascination or straight backed defiance. They remain in the Embassy with the rest of the diplomatic staff, awaiting advice. It remains the same, go about your business as usual, keep your head down and further instruction will be forthcoming. Three weeks further on, and the U.S. Ambassador remains in Paris to continue overseeing passage out of the country for citizens of various nations. His staff, Sam and Myka included, are given permission by the Germans to follow the French government to its new home in Vichy - where Pétain has signed an Armistice and been granted sole power.

They are caught in momentous times, but Sam pleads with Myka to follow Vanessa’s example and leave while she can. But her affection for the country, and her sense of duty to bear witness makes her stay. She also tells Sam that he isn’t getting rid of her so easily, but regrets it when she sees the sad expression on his face, and covers up with a swift hug and a question about travel arrangements. So it is, that in the heat of July they journey away from this home of theirs for over a year, and towards the unknown of the ‘unoccupied’ south.

 

\----

_**June 1942** _

The rumble of the train keeps Helena from sleep besides forty winks here and there, which is hardly a remedy for a late night talking with her brother and a very early start to the day. She supposes it could be worse, she could be seated in a compartment with travelling companions intent on chattering for the duration of the journey. As it is, she is sat with McShane and a woman who she met only a few hours ago at Waterloo Station. Mrs Danby is tasked with the administration of personnel records amongst other documentation and correspondence at their final destination. She has been visiting family in London, and her demeanour puts Helena in mind of a stern aunt, disapproving and inherently suspicious of new acquaintances. McShane assures Helena that her natural charm will eventually win through, but at present she feels uncharacteristically self conscious of her hemline and the cut of her blouse. Mrs Danby’s high collared floral ensemble looks sweltering when the bend of the train round the track allows the sun to stream in through soot smeared windows; and she frequently fusses with the pins in her grey streaked hair.

Deciding to stretch her legs, Helena excuses herself and steps out into the corridor, intending to visit the buffet carriage and be tempted to waste her allowance on something indulgent. The next compartment along houses four of the people they are escorting up to Scotland. She looks in as she passes and sees Myka Bering laughing at something Lizzie Newman has said, in that moment appearing devoid of a care in the world. Bering and Newman, along with Mary Herbert, who is travelling from another part of the country, are the only women joining this expedition into the HIghlands of Scotland. Helena is sure they have no idea what is in store over the next six weeks, because their experiences so far have been tame in comparison. Myka’s laughter follows her down the train and when she reaches the buffet car, she has to sidle past two Polish men from their travel party to squeeze through the doorway, and they tip their military caps in greeting as she does so. 

She’s disappointed to find only tasteless ration chocolate on offer, appetizingly wrapped in greaseproof paper and reminiscent of cardboard the one time she’d tried it. Instead, she departs having used extra coupons to obtain double the usual allowance of boiled sweets, popping one into her mouth as she strolls back along the corridor. This time, Myka is sat alone when she’s passing and Helena pops her head in through the now lowered window of the door. 

“You’ve been abandoned I see,” she says, and Myka’s gaze is drawn with a start from the window, clearly lost in thought but recovering quickly.

“Oh! They’ve decided to walk the length of the train, but I’m beginning to feel the effects of an early start.”

“May I join you for a moment?” 

Helena asks, because she has not had chance to apologise for her abrupt departure in Surrey, and feels as though she should. Earlier, when she’d seen Myka arrive at the railway station in her blue WAAF uniform, Helena’s mind had drifted back to that day, the events in between having taken over somewhat. The bright, cloudy sky, the smell of engine oil, Myka’s clear complexion and wide smile - Helena had forgotten just how caught in the moment she’d been, and how McShane’s interruption had proved quite timely.

She expands, “I swear I shall leave you to rest shortly.” 

Myka nods, and Helena twists the small brass knob of the door handle and steps inside, drawing up the sliding door window as she does so. She sits directly opposite Myka and leans across, rustling the paper bag full of sweets in offering. Myka appears to fight with herself, then quickly selects one, which she pops into her mouth and rolls around her tongue with a small noise of appreciation. 

“I don’t have a sweet tooth,” she says, pushing the sweet into her cheek, “But once in awhile…”

Helena looks away from Myka’s mouth, and chuckles, “Well wartime is very ‘once in awhile’ when it comes to indulgent little pleasures, Myka.” 

Myka ducks her head self consciously, as though chastised, and Helena marvels at how such a very competent, confident woman can at times appear unsure and smaller than she is.

“Take another, for later,” Helena teases, “live a little…” 

Myka narrows her eyes, then pushes her shoulders back, recognising the tease for what it is and she dips her fingers into the proffered bag again, “I think I will,” she says, tone clear and not quite sulking, and Helena laughs quietly to herself.

After a moment, Helena looks out onto the gently rolling fields of middle England. 

“I wanted to apologise, Myka,” she begins, “for leaving you to clear up my mess, back at the Manor,” 

Myka shakes her head, “Don’t be silly, it was nothing,” and Helena notices how she looks down at her palm before quickly looking up again, “McShane said…” 

She stops herself, and Helena knows what she’s about to say, because McShane had confessed his indiscretion to Helena during the car ride to the station that day.

“It’s fine,” She waves a hand and Myka, being polite, enquires after her brother. 

Helena doesn’t correct her, and instead quips, “My brother Charles can be rather dramatic, I swear he’s never heard of the boy who cried wolf!” 

Myka’s head tilts, she’s detected the slight waver in her voice and Helena curses herself internally. 

“Honestly, he’s a tough nut,” she covers.

Myka smiles, and it’s broad, and fond, “I know just the type,” 

Helena doesn’t miss the opportunity to deflect, and gives Myka a sly grin, “Oh? Do tell, Colorado…”

Myka scowls at the name, but then just as quickly smiles crookedly, “My best friend when I was growing up, Pete,” she says wistfully, “In Colorado Springs, as it happens. He once dislocated his shoulder during a student protest,” she says.

“A radical student, was he?” Helena imagines an intellectual, perhaps unhappy with censorship in a small town establishment, but Myka snorts.

“Hardly!” she exclaims, “No, in a protest over streetcars being replaced by buses - a group of students hijacked one from it’s tracks on the last ever journey. Pete convinced the driver and it’s only passenger to get off first...and they lifted it off then pushed it along the high street towards college campus.” 

Helena gains a very different image of Pete as Myka describes his antics, he’s certainly a prankster and a charmer rather than a scholar. 

Myka’s shoulders shake slightly as she chuckles, “He really hurt himself, but soldiered on, and they hardly got 200 yards before they were warned that virtually the whole police department were headed their way….so they abandoned the last ever streetcar on the tarmac, and Pete stubbornly tried to compete in a college wrestling tournament the next day.”

“He sounds very….tenacious?” 

Myka squints, “He sounds like an idiot, Helena,” she pauses, “but yeah, tenacious is a good fit too. Of course, he milked it for all it was worth afterwards.”

Helena says the words before thinking, it’s unlike her, but hearing Myka talk about her life in America is refreshing and unweighted by the recent past. 

“Where is he now, your Pete?” 

“Hardly _my_ Pete,” Myka’s face scrunches in a sort of mock horror before she sobers, “He’s a pilot in the U.S. Air Force…”

“Oh,” Helena says, because she understands all too well the implications of that, of any involvement of a loved one in the field. 

“Yeah, we write sometimes,” Myka says, “His squadron is based in New Mexico, but they’re expecting to deploy soon, well he is hoping to at least,” she sighs at that.

Helena sympathises, “It would be lovely to think he won’t be, however…” 

“I know. And I hardly think he would be happy with what I am doing,” she grimaces, then shrugs.

“He does sound a little like my brother, Charles,” Helena concedes, “He is not entirely happy with my choices in life, yet he supports me unconditionally. I am lucky in that respect.”

Myka purses her lips, a new sparkle in her eyes, “I can’t believe he doesn’t tease you at least, as any good brother should,” 

Helena laughs, “Yes, yes, he is a _good_ brother,” and she can see a question on the edge of Myka’s lips, and really it’s a valid one.

“He fought in France for a short spell, barely made it back,” she offers, and Myka looks a little shamefaced, even though she’s asked nothing of Helena.

“He says the worst thing was stinking of fish for a month after spending hours on a trawler crossing the channel,” Helena recalls the gallows humour Charles employed when she first saw him again. “He returned minus an eye and with a leg that gives him trouble every day.”

“I’m sorry,” Myka whispers, then lifts her chin, “Wolly’s brother…”

“I know. Charles is lucky to be out of it, and I’m glad of that at least,” 

Myka averts her eyes suddenly, no doubt thinking of Pete, and Helena rushes to compensate, “And I am sure your Pete will be fine, especially when he gets over here and finds himself a lovely English rose…”

That earns a laugh, and another crooked smile from Myka, “I don’t think you are _his_ type Helena,” she says in jest but then gapes at her own words, “What I mean to say is…” 

“I’m no English rose, Myka,” Helena interjects, wondering at the slight inflection in Myka's words, “surely you’ve guessed that?” 

She winks, and something like relief flashes across Myka’s face as she watches Helena stand and stretch. Helena is reluctant to leave, but she is feeling suddenly too playful, and being alone in this compartment with Myka has felt too comfortable. She knows what the cause is, enjoys the effect, but also senses that Myka, perhaps, does not. 

She scolds herself on the way back to her own seat, passing a rather excitable Lizzie Newman and companions on the way. There is some indefinable quality about Myka Bering that teases at the edge of Helena’s consciousness, and it’s making her want to explore their budding friendship further. It would be ill-advised, and so when she sits back down alongside a sleeping McShane, she mentally lists the reasons it would be so, and then thinks of what she has at home. It tempers her earlier mood, and soon she finds herself drifting off, willing the train nearer their destination. 

\---

Helena has no sea legs to speak of, and she detests this journey each time she has made it. It is thanks to an accident that she is there at all, and each time the boat hits a huge wave, she curses the officer who broke a leg making a hazardous climb, requiring Helena to fill in. She sits in the middle of the boat with her back to the cabin, eyes closed in concentration as she manages the ebb and flow of her gut. 

Inverie House is an 18th Century mansion, it’s white and grey facade in stark contrast to the green mountainous landscape immediately behind, and the grimy blue of the sea in front. As their boat rounds the headland into the bay, Helena hears murmurs of appreciation and chances opening her eyes, just in time to see Myka’s eyes dart to hers, and Helena knows she wants to check she can appreciate the view. But Helena feels as green as the scenery before them, and gasps.

“Yes, very lovely, if only it would stay still…” she grimaces, and Myka’s face softens in sympathy before she turns back, grinning at the wide sweeping bay before them.

It feels an eternity before Helena stumbles onto the wooden jetty that juts out from the paved dock. Legs like jelly, face paler than usual, she longs to lay down and place her head on one of the soft goose down pillows she knows are waiting in one of the many bedrooms of the mansion up ahead. As it is, she sits on a wooden crate, and McShane slaps her across a shoulder.

“Come on Wells, no rest for the wicked!” he laughs, but then drops his voice lower, “When we get there, make yourself scarce,” and he winks. 

So she does. Their ten charges carry their luggage, and hers, up to the house and as soon as they have piled into the hallway she takes her case to head upstairs. Three hours later she wakes, fully clothed, face down with a hint of drool on her very comfortable pillow. Stiff, but no longer nauseous, she freshens up and heads downstairs, just in time for tea. 

This group is smaller, and made up from an amalgamation of people who have been put through assessment at differing times of the year. Bering, Newman, Walcott, Herbert and Finch the teacher from the most recent group, plus the two Polish army privates, a French mariner, and the two English officers who had been sat on the train with Bering and Newman. Helena is pleased not to see any of those she was less impressed with, though she knows she’ll cross paths with the likes of Rake again down the line. This is only the start. 

She and McShane have escorted some of the party up to Inverie, and now that they are here, form part of a much larger squad of instructors and assessors. McShane will lead on the intense physical training that takes place at this stage; while Helena is there to bring her professional knowledge and field experience to bear. The downside of that being she will have to make that bloody boat trip multiple times.

She takes a seat that puts her on the same side of the table as Myka, but not next to her, and so out of her line of sight. The train journey has left her conflicted between the enjoyment found in Myka’s company and the need to do her job while avoiding complications. Helena spends the meal chatting with the Poles, whose English is surprisingly good, and hears of their escape through Hungary, then onto Yugoslavia and on foot across Northern Italy. They’d gained passage on a ship from France, docking at Southampton and immediately offering themselves up for duty as had many foreign nationals arriving on British shores while the Germans swept all before them. Six months ago their unit had a visitor who was looking for volunteers who wanted to make a difference much closer to home. These men are both in their early forties, one with no family, the other not knowing where his wife and child are - both wanted to do more.

Later that evening, when she is sat in one corner of the study perusing the schedule for the weeks to come, Wolly strides in and heads straight for the maps rolled upright in a box alongside the mahogany table in the middle of the room. He’s concentrating, looking for something in particular, and she clears her throat before speaking. 

“Mr Walcott…?”

He jumps, clearly startled, and exhales a wheeze of a laugh, “Cripes, you gave me a fright!”

His hand lands on a map, he checks the name along it’s edge and pulls it up and onto the table in a smooth sweep of his hand. 

“Wolly,” she says, “You look like you are up to no good, what _are_ you doing?”

He hesitates, “I, well, I just want to get my bearings. It sounds daft, but I think I came here, or somewhere very like it, as a child,” 

Helena stands, closing a folder and sliding it under her arm as she walks over to where he is rolling out an ordnance survey map of the locale. 

“There’s a painting on the wall in my room,” he expands, “of a castle, red ivy over an archway - Armadale, it says on the inscription..?”

Helena knows it, draws her finger across the map, West of their position, “That is on the Isle of Skye, also accessible on a ferry from Mallaig.”

He beams, “That’s it, then, I remember being bloody well frozen on a boat, a castle which seemed huge in my eyes, and my older brother rolling up his trouser legs to carry me into the sea. Ha!” 

Today seems to be a day for brothers, “It’s a good memory to have of him,” she says, thinking that Charles would more likely have thrown her into the ice cold water, before laughing and making a great show of rescuing her. 

“It is,” Wolly says, and Helena thinks of the schedule under her arm. 

“Actually, we may be visiting Skye at some point while we are here,” she smiles, and so does he, until a frown darkens his brow.

“Somehow, I doubt it shall remind me of a family holiday, H.G.” he says.

Helena can’t lie to him, “No, I can guarantee the only thing that will do that, is the painting in your bedroom, Wolly.”

He lets out a huge sigh, “We have a free day tomorrow?” he checks.

“Yes, get some rest before the work begins in earnest,” Helena pushes herself away from the table and they walk out into the dim hallway. It may be June, but they are in the Highlands of Scotland and the wide, high-ceilinged passageway is cold. She shivers, and skips to the warmth of the lounge. Three large sofas form a rectangle with the fireplace, which has a low log fire burning. Two officers are playing cards, and Wolly flops himself down next to Lizzie Newman who is busy darning a pair of socks. Myka is nowhere to be seen, and so Helena sits on the empty sofa nearest the fireplace and rests her head against the arm, lifting her feet out of her shoes and onto the upholstery. 

“If I fall asleep, nudge me before you head up…” she murmurs, and the last thing she hears is Wolly saying he will do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Auxiliary Territorial Service (ATS) was the women's branch of the British Army during the Second World War. 
> 
> \- Leena's 'ten percenters' comment is of course, [true](http://www.womensmemorial.org/Education/BBH1998.html#4%0A).
> 
> \- Performer [Adelaide Hall](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adelaide_Hall#European_career.2C_1935.E2.80.9338) opened La Grosse Pomme in 1936. As an aside, perhaps of interest to those who read Apparitionism's _Soon_ , and as I am sure Appy knows already with such extensive music knowledge, [Django Reinhardt](https://gypsyjazzuk.wordpress.com/gypsy-jazz-uk-home/djangos-birth-and-early-childhood/djangos-haunts/) also had a club in Paris - [La Roulotte](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=xUT0xe2l_2QC&pg=PA103&lpg=PA103&dq=la+roulotte+rue+pigalle&source=bl&ots=hy7mK1PHZ6&sig=nE9dL60dLo8m91F4Z45p75hPhcM&hl=en&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwj6yObrw9fKAhUKfRoKHTENCjYQ6AEINzAF#v=onepage&q=la%20roulotte%20rue%20pigalle&f=false) \- frequented by Nazis and allied agents alike.
> 
> \- The students hijacking the last ever trolley car in Colorado Springs is a [true story](http://oldnorthend.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/CompleteHistoryONEN.pdf%20) (P.16).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of their stay in Scotland, plus Helena's backstory progresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek. Busy busy busy with life 'stuff'. Hope you enjoy this, hopefully not as long until the next...

_**July 1942** _

Myka drops her hands to her knees, gulping in cold morning air, staring at her mud covered plimsolls and formerly pristine white socks pushed down to her ankles. Her breath sparkles in the the morning sun, and she turns her head when she feels another presence come to a stuttering halt alongside. 

“Bloody….hell…” Wolly gasps, adopting a similar stance but glancing behind at the chasing pack, “You beat me!”

Myka grits out a grin, “It’s not a competition,” she says, and isn’t quick enough to dodge the sting of Wolly’s finger flicking at her bare leg, “Oi!” 

They are at the end of the first punishing week, and already it is proving to be levels above what they did in Surrey. McShane is a familiar face, but he and the other instructors are pushing them to their limits. Their life at present is one long exercise in physical training and unarmed combat. Early rises, cross country hikes, assault courses, sandbag races - all give way each afternoon to a few hours hand to hand work on the lawn in front of the mansion. Myka has enjoyed it when she’s not been in pain, she is strong and that has stood her in good stead when paired up to run through drills. 

“The first thing to learn in unarmed combat is to grab your opponent by the balls,” one instructor had said before selecting of the officers from the line to demonstrate - pulling the unlucky victim down by the shoulders and lifting a sharp knee to his groin - stopping just short of connecting, “Oh apologies, I forget, a _gentleman_ has testicles…” 

He’d earned a nervous laugh from the men, but very quickly they were studying weak points on the human body and techniques to assault the windpipe, break an arm, jab at kidneys and eyes. While they sparred in pairs, they would practice more deadly maneuvers on dummies, all without any official confirmation of what exactly they were training for. The message was clear, fight as though you were in the gutter, and do not relent once you have the advantage.

Right now Myka is in pain, her lungs burn, and her legs threaten to give way beneath her. It’s an effort to stand upright, but she manages by grabbing onto Wolly’s arm and he seems to recognise her discomfort so thankfully doesn’t tease. When everyone has reached the checkpoint they file onto the long benches lining the waiting truck, pulling scratchy wool jumpers back over their sweat slicked skin. Someone, Myka thinks it is Lizzie, starts a sing song, and this has become a routine of sorts if the mood is right. Myka always feels a little embarrassed at first, but then it becomes more so to be the only one not joining the fun and she eventually relents. Lizzie flashes her a quick smile as she joins in on a chorus, 

“Show me the way to go home!” Myka yells with gusto, “I’m tired and I wanna go to bed!”

They are piling out of the truck at the mansion when the blare of a horn floats across the water, a boat is nearing the jetty, a single figure stood clutching a railing. Myka hears an officer chuckle, “Looks like Helena’s back, she’ll be in a foul mood no doubt,” and the others murmur in amusement until McShane cuts across the noise. 

“Clean up, eat, back out on the lawn for 2 o’clock,” he barks, before turning on his heel and walking purposefully towards the water.

Helena had been strangely subdued for a few days after they’d first arrived, and though Myka knew the journey hadn’t been kind to her, it also seemed she was avoiding social breaks. Since they’d been at Inverie the whole atmosphere had been more businesslike and less familiar, with many more instructors, most sporting uniforms of some description. They’d obviously seen a fair bit of McShane, but Helena seemed to actively distance herself, and then just three days in she had departed with a face like thunder. Myka wondered if it was once again related to her brother, and recalled the talk they’d had on the train. Helena’s eyes had lit up with warmth when she’d spoken of Charles and home, though at times she seemed on the verge of a confession, with a slight hesitancy in her words one moment then infectious bluster the next. Myka’s disappointment at Helena’s departure was lost in the exhaustion of the relentless schedule, but when she sees the figure on the boat and hears the ungracious confirmation of her return, something in her lifts and she comes back outside an hour later with a spring to her step. 

Stood on the wide expanse of grass by the mansion are their combat instructors, today one holds a long thin blade in his left hand. William Fairbairn has a receding hairline and perfectly round, thick framed spectacles. Eric Sykes wore similar wire framed spectacles, while his thick hair parted down the middle shiny with pomade. 

“I know you are all dog tired,” Fairbairn’s officer class accent rings out, “unarmed drills will continue, but today we are introducing a new friend to the party.”

He holds up the knife in his hand, a flat six inch blade honed to a sharp point, “What is the first rule of combat?”

Fairbairn had been very quick to push this lesson home at the start of the week, and the hands go up. He nods at the eldest of the Polish men, Konrad. 

“Win at all costs, no rules,” he says clearly, nodding curtly in affirmation. 

“Correct,” Fairbairn says, “ _kill or be killed_ ,”

Myka finds herself fascinated by the vicious looking knife Fairbairn continuously twists and flips slowly from hand to hand while he speaks. She is fascinated but horrified, and chances a glance at Mary expecting to see a reflection of her own concerns, but is surprised to see tight lines of concentration around her mouth and eyes. They’ve worked over dummies with their bare hands, but when Fairbairn demonstrates stance and hold - always grip with the thumb and forefinger at the hilt, switch hands to keep the enemy guessing, jab forcefully at the dummy - Myka feels unease in her gut. Would she be able to do this? She and Mary had worked hard together to improve their handling of firearms, but this is something very different, not at all disconnected from the target. 

“It’s like you said,” Mary whispers, eyeing her knowingly, “If you have to, you have to,” 

Myka tries to hide her grimace, but fails when she hears Sykes calling to a figure emerging from the mansion house. It’s Helena, she’s surveying the scene, taking in fresh air with long slow breaths. 

“H.G. care to help out a fellow?!” Sykes yells, and Helena peers from under a hand shielding her eyes from the sun, then steps down to cross the short distance.

She grumbles, “Eric, if this is one of your…”

“We only require a willing victim and you present the perfect example H.G.” he says, and with an eye roll she follows him to stand in front of them. 

Fairbairn appears to approve of the impromptu addition to their demonstrations.

“Excellent,” he says, “Our colleague here has, I believe, just had a post travel nap so I imagine is a little lethargic.” 

Sykes lifts his spectacles up as though inspecting the woman stood before them. “Helena, shadow exercise?” 

Despite her obvious irritation, she nods curtly, holds her right hand out and accepts the hilt of the knife offered, holding it low to her side. She distances herself from the group, and Fairbairn positions himself approximately twenty feet away from her before speaking. 

“You are behind enemy lines, it is dark, you may be attacked from any direction. You will move as indicated, and listen for the direction of attacks, evading or countering with a cut or thrust to your enemy.”

Myka hears a disparaging chuckle from one of the English officers, and a muttered remark, “This should be good.” She glares at the man, and he merely shrugs at her, but what follows beats any retort she could muster. 

Helena's deceptively casual appearance has disappeared, she is all business. Fairbairn barks a series of short sharp commands and Helena moves - walking, running, crouching - responding with manoeuvres of her own. Her arms, hands, legs, feet and the knife she holds in a firm grip are used to parry and thrust, her body sways and dips to avoid an imaginary foe.

_“In front - low to the stomach.”_  
“Sprint fifteen feet, crouch down.”  
“Behind, high left.  
“Quick steps, to me, high right.”  
“Left side, swipe to the legs.” 

The commands increase in pace, Helena moves with grace and precision, a study in concentration and determination. Her brow is furrowed, wisps of hair come loose, and a slight perspiration coats her temple and neck, ands Myka’s uneasy fascination with the weapon gives way to another.

The exercise continues for around five minutes, and by the time Fairbairn issues one final command, “Rear attack, thrust to the kidneys,” Helena is breathing heavily and they are around fifty feet further down the slope of the grass. The recruits have followed, rapt by the action, and Myka smiles when Helena winks at a gaping Wolly, while the two officers appear chastened when she catches their eyes, and Myka is pretty sure Helena heard their laughter at her expense.

Fairbairn is clearly satisfied by the display, “Here is a woman who but a few hours ago was fairly incapacitated by choppy waters,” Helena scowls at the words, “but come at her with a knife, and I don't fancy the enemy’s chances” 

Sykes coughs, “When we've finished with you - you will be doing this and more. Thank you H.G. Just one more thing...”

“Yes, yes...I’ll look forward to that whiskey you owe me,” she breathes, handing him the knife and turning to stand facing them. 

Sykes puts himself directly beside her, holding the blade flat before Helena’s torso. She remains still, eyes drifting through their ranks, giving slight pause at Myka’s before looking dead ahead once more. Fairbairn then proceeds to clinically describe kill points and estimated times until death. Watching a knife thrust into a straw dummy presented one level of discomfort - but seeing the sharp glinting tip drawn across Helena’s clavicle, or held at a right angle to her neck in preparation for a punching cut to the carotid artery - it gave Myka a very vivid image to latch onto. A knife piercing Helena's skin, one and a half inches deep, an instantaneous outpouring of blood causing loss of consciousness in five seconds, eyes fluttering shut, body dropping. Death within twelve seconds. 

Myka curses her imagination, and the unexpected series of emotions: horror, fear, regret, overwhelming sadness. As the days progressed and they practiced learnt stances, counter attacks and scenarios, the shock dissipated only slightly but that first reaction had been unique. She was unsure whether it was due to her first exposure to the cold clinical nature of the silent kill, or to the person who had been under the knife. 

 

\---

_**September 1940** _

They hear nothing of Pierre for three weeks. His family live in a poor suburb of the city and Helena’s grandfather insists on continuing to pay his meagre wage, a small comfort to his frantic mother and helpless father. Both Serge and Helena’s discreet enquiries have been fruitless, though it’s common knowledge that the Germans have been handing off many so called miscreants to local officials. Helena has her suspicions and would not be surprised if Pierre had been transported away from his home and into forced labour - ironically the subject of some of the very posters he’d been caught with - right now his family just want to know he is alive.

She returns one evening from delivering Pierre’s wage to find a Daimler parked up outside her grandparents home, swastika prominent on a flag flapping against the black shiny surface of the car. There is a soldier, the driver she assumes, leant casually against an open door, cigarette in hand. When she approaches, he straightens and asks for a light in fairly decent English, Helena fights her unease and remembers to respond in kind with a French accent to boot. She hands him a strip of matches from her bag, warily watching as he cups a flame in his hands and dips the cigarette now dangling from his chapped lips.

“May I ask who is honouring my grandparents with a visit?” she asks, having noticed the door to their house stands ajar. 

The soldier takes a puff, and smiles as he holds out the matches. Her fingers grasp at the card but he holds firm, and his smile morphs into something less pleasant.

“Hauptmann Adler,” he opens his fingers to release the packet, “Maybe you could keep me company while I wait?”

Helena is no stranger to casual advances of this kind, but she regards him with surprise, “I suspect your superior wouldn’t take too kindly to a local girl charming information from you…” 

It’s a risky tactic, from this short encounter alone she sees he thinks well of himself and his power as an occupier, but his position now is rather a comfortable one, and he laughs her rejection off.

“I’d say you were a woman not a girl,” he sneers and turns away, shutting the car door as he makes a show of inspecting its tyres. 

Helena escapes quickly up the path, slowing at the door when she hears voices. 

“So as you must see, Monsieur Fournier, my hands were tied,” the sibilant tones of Adler drift out, and Helena doesn’t need to see his face to know the man is enjoying whatever bad news he is supplying. 

She steps into the house calling a hesitant greeting, they are in the kitchen up ahead. It is the centre of this household, her mémère sat at the table, her pépère stood facing her. His eyes flash a warning as Adler turns at the sound of her voice. 

“Ah! Mademoiselle!” he greets, a smile no more sincere than that of his driver, “What a pleasant sight after having to deliver unwelcome news,” he throws a comment back at her grandfather, “We are done here…” 

He steps forward, takes Helena’s hand in his gloved one and places dry lips swiftly to the back of it. She fights the urge to pull it away and slap him, so remains silent, untrusting of her own mouth. She looks up at her grandparents who both seem to be holding an unsteady breath, until Adler sweeps past without another word.

“What has happened, pépère?” Helena says urgently, but it's her grandmother who answers, pushing herself up with the aid of her husband’s supportive arm. 

Her voice is worn and tired, and she pinches the bridge of her nose, “It's Pierre, mon trésor,” she rasps, and Helena’s heart thumps, she knows before the words are spoken, “He's been shot dead.”

“How?” She should not be surprised, with the tales they've heard, but to hear the words of someone she knows and felt protective of...

She slumps down on the bench, remembering the clasp of his mother's hands not an hour before, thanking Helena. Her grandmother pulls out a dusty bottle of cognac from a cupboard before pouring three short measures in glasses that had been sat waiting to be shelved. They sit at the table, her grandfather places a comforting hand on Helena’s shoulder.

“Apparently he tried to escape, would not heed the commands of the guards…” he says and Helena feels ill at the thought, not a little dubious of the story.

“I wonder did they shoot him in the back,” she bites out, and the hand at her shoulder tightens before releasing altogether. “I’ve just been with his family...they don’t know?” Her shakes her head grandmother, tutting in disgust. 

 

A day later, Adler had Pierre’s body released early to the family, though Helena saw it for what it was - a reminder of the power held over their lives. She felt guilt weigh heavily, no matter how futile, for not doing more the day he was arrested, for not cautioning him to be more circumspect. Her grandfather feels it too, redoubling efforts to keep the Germans happy and his workers safe. They had gone together that night to break the news to Pierre’s family, Helena would never forget the anguish on his mother’s face when she saw his employers returning so soon. 

Adler also started to make calls at the house almost weekly. He brought his agenda into their home, questions about factory finances, suppliers and staff. Rarely at the workplace anymore, Adler left it’s oversee to his equally fastidious second, while he dropped unsubtle hints about their house being more convenient to his post at high command. So with more frequency Helena would return from a shift or an errand to see the black Daimler, and more often than not, the same driver she’d encountered that first time. She would be civil as he tried to cajole her into conversing every time, a sense of superiority making him bolder, ultimately tempered by the fact that his superior would emerge from the house at any time. 

It is late one evening, the September sun dropping beyond trees swaying on the horizon, that she is surprised to see not the Daimler but a regulation grey German army vehicle parked in the usual spot. No one is in sight, but the wooden gate onto the lemon tree lined path is open and that is something her grandmother would never leave be - rectifying it at the first opportunity if a visitor left it swinging. Helena turned the key in the door quietly, a sixth sense making her cautious. She removed her light cardigan and carried her shopping bag along the dim hallway towards the kitchen, where soft light filtered around the half closed door. She has an eerie sense of deja vu, but when she pushes her palm against the smooth surface of the door it is not Hauptmann Adler sat at their table, but the driver - Michael. He is nursing a mug, fingers gripped tightly around and through the handle, she sees his jaw twitch when she enters the room. 

Her grandmother is sat opposite, and Helena needs one glance to see tension threaded through her from top to toe, especially when she moves to stand and Michael places a hand on her arm.

“Sit. I insist. It is your granddaughter I wish to visit,” he says quietly. Helena takes deliberate steps to stand alongside her grandmother.

Feeling not a little angry and disconcerted, Helena forgets herself by coming straight to the point, knowing as she speaks that her tone is inappropriate, “This is not an official visit?” 

His eyes narrow slightly, “It doesn’t have to be,” he says, and her unease moves up another notch. 

Her grandmother shifts, starts to speak in French, “He wants to court you, that much I understood, mon trésor, please…” she’s cut off by Michael’s hiss of dissatisfaction.

“Use English!” he grinds out, and Helena instinctively places her hand down on the table between them, protective of her grandmother. Michael notices, but continues, “I would like to take you out for a drive, Helena,” he says.

“I am flattered, but I am spoken for,” she hedges, unsure how to read this unexpected development. He disregards her words entirely.

“I was asking as a courtesy,”

Helena blinks, licks her lips as she considers their situation.

“I’m rather tired having just returned from work, but thank you for the offer, Michael,” she smiles in the hope that a gentle refusal gives her time and opportunity to sidestep his advances completely.

He laughs with intent, knowing he holds the cards, “I can wait while you freshen up,” 

She hesitates for the slightest of moments, and his patience and pretence at good humour are gone.

“Enough,” he looks at them both, “I took an interest in you, Helena, your _English_ is good, I was surprised,”

“I was taught well, as you clearly were,” she says confidently, but he waves a hand dismissively.

“So it seems, but you see, I asked around and it also appears you’ve not lived in these parts much longer than a year,” he winks, “and there’s no birth certificate that I can trace…” 

Helena, tired of his insinuation and malice, acutely aware of her vulnerability, decides she has no choice - at least while he sits in their kitchen, an unspoken threat to her grandparents. 

“Very well, if you are _so_ interested in making my acquaintance,” she sighs, and takes a few steps to the hallway, “I will be a few moments.”

He stands to follow her, but Helena’s precious mémère has other ideas. Later, Helena will learn that the thought of her granddaughter alone with a soldier terrified her, that it was born from experience. She acted on impulse, as the most ill advised kind of actions often do.

“Non!” her grandmother has stumbled up from the table, pulling at his arm, “No!”

His face twists, his body twists, and Helena watches in horror as the same arm lifts and swings a backhand against the age speckled skin of her grandmother’s face. Her legs give way in shock, she slumps back down onto the bench as Michael looms above, chest heaving in an instant and disproportionate reaction. 

“Leave her,” Helena growls, and he sneers, raising a hand to strike again.

Helena acts. 

In the blink of an eye she takes hold of the closest item to hand and strikes him clumsily, but with force, across his neck. It’s not until he has staggered sideways and drops - hand clutching at his collar, smacking his temple against the still open door of the kitchen stove - that she looks down at the flat iron clutched in her white-knuckled hand. 

She feels sick, at a loss as to how the situation escalated so violently, at how she saw red so instinctually. It feels like minutes, then she feels paper dry hands prying her fingers from the iron. 

“Helena...Helena,” her grandmother’s voice is urgent, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, mon trésor. What was I thinking?” 

Helena opens her mouth to speak, but a suppressed sob emerges, and she drops to the bench, fixated on the deathly still form of a German soldier in their home. 

“What have _I_ done?” she whispers, before firm hands forcibly turn her to see grandmother’s face for the first time. A face that so rarely betrays fragility is doing just that, full of guilt, and Helena knows she would do it again, “Are you hurt, mémère?” she murmurs.

“I am fine,” but Helena sees the swiftly purpling skin below one eye and raises a tentative hand to it. 

Her grandmother shakes her head, “I’m fine,” she repeats. 

Her hands remain at either side of her granddaughter’s face, the press against Helena’s flushed skin gradually calming her. 

“Listen to me,” she says earnestly, “You must go. Now. Send your grandfather to me.” 

“Wait,” Helena says, and forces her limbs to move, pushing gently away from her grandmother’s arms she drops down to Michael’s body and presses two fingers to his neck. She waits a full two minutes, the sound of her own slowing heartbeat in her ears, while the breathy exhalations of her grandmother seem louder than ever. There is nothing to detect, but his glazed eyes had told her that already. She swiftly closes them and turns, “I can’t leave you alone,” she says, but her grandmother has already gathered a coat for Helena.

“Send your grandfather to me,” she says once more, and Helena feels like a child again, her grandmother’s firm instruction not open to question this time. 

Helena sighs heavily, but agrees to the request. Truth be told she feels like a coward at the relief she feels when stepping out of the house and into the night. She hurries, leaving by the back entrance, making the twenty minute walk to the factory in fifteen. It is in relative darkness, but the hum of a night shift inside is also evidenced by slits of light high up in the facade. The walk has helped untangle her thoughts, if not to reconcile with what she has done, at least to give her the clarity to make sensible choices. She enters via a back staircase that only a few have access to, and hopes that her grandfather is in the offices. He’s not, but Serge is, and she had forgotten he had stayed later. 

She doesn’t like or wish to appear weak in any way, but when she sees him turn at the sound of the door opening, she strides across and falls into a desperate, fumbling hug. He is young, but by no means naive enough to think this is some form of impromptu rendezvous.

“What’s happened?” he says into her hair. 

So she talks into his shoulder, gripping his shirt, feeling his hands tighten slightly at her waist when she confirms MIchael lays dead in her grandparent’s home. He doesn’t say anything at first, and when the silence breaks it’s not Serge’s voice she hears, but someone who has guided and supported her at many points in her life.

“Serge,” she lifts her head to see her grandfather stood with his back to a door.

“Pépère,” she whispers, and pushes away and into his fierce, familiar embrace.

“Serge,” he repeats, “I am going home, I want you to take my granddaughter to your apartment then meet me back at the house. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Of course,” she hears Serge moving about the office, and then her grandfather grips at her shoulders and holds her at arm's length.

“Let us fix this, yes?” she wants to protest, to insist that she goes with them to the house, but right now his will is stronger so she allows herself to be guided.

Three hours later she is ensconced in Serge’s apartment, on edge with nerves and the warm tingle of half a bottle of brandy in her system. When the turn of a key signals his return, she pours him a thumb and waits for him to remove his coat with laboured movements.

“We’ve moved him, and his car,” he says softly, while looking beyond her at the reflection in the window behind, “the story is that he called at the house but left when you hadn't returned from your shift.”

He moves to hold her but she turns away.

“When he doesn't appear, they will look for the last person who saw him...mémère…” she reasons.

“We've dumped the vehicle in Montmartre, hopefully they'll draw their own conclusion from that,” he touches her arm tentatively, “your grandmother was fine, they will both be fine.”

“I should have gone back, it was my mess,” she wipes at a damp cheek, “I should go now.”

She turns around, Serge shakes his head, tired lines about his eyes and a streak of grime on his neck. She wipes it with a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she says, “I'm so sorry you are involved, I'm sorry.”

When he pulls her to him now, she doesn't resist, and sinks into his embrace much as she had at the office. 

“I would do anything for you, Helena,” he whispers, “I can't be unhappy that you did not leave with him, I can't”

She is glad to have avoided an unpredictable situation, but not at the expense of people close to her paying for her mistake, in danger and willing to risk everything. Serge’s declaration is a little more than she's prepared for so she stays hidden in the rough wool of his jacket. She remains for what is left of the night, mindful to rise and leave before dawn. Her grandfather meets her at the factory and they go about a normal day, though it is far from that. She tries hard not to think of hard metal in her hand, or the dull thud that followed. She doesn’t ask what became of the body.

A few days later two German officers knock at the door early, just as Helena is gathering her bag and coat to leave. They have enquiries about Gefreiter Kempf, he told friends he was visiting a woman he met on the job, but had not returned to duty a day later. Helena has dreaded this, but when the time comes, she discovers that the initial shock has died, or rather she is able to suppress it and appear her usual self. It seems Helena inherited certain traits from her grandmother, for she too proves adept at weaving their simple, entirely plausible story. When the door closes on the departing soldiers, Helena puffs out a huge breath and slumps against a wall. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and when she walks back into the kitchen her grandmother says, “I don’t think it will remain safe for you much longer.” 

They discuss it over and again that day and night, Helena’s grandparent’s adamant that Michael’s implicit threat may return to haunt them. If he told others of his plan to visit Helena, who is to say he didn’t mention his suspicion about her nationality. So it is with great reluctance that she agrees to leave Paris for a time, and Serge will escort her to stay with his relatives in a town further South, close to Dijon. As they are about to step out into the cool morning air, Helena’s grandmother holds her back while tugging at a ring finger. 

“Keep this safe for me, mon trésor,” she places a gold band adorned with a single emerald into Helena’s cool palm, and tuts when her granddaughter opens her mouth to protest, “I’ll expect it back when you are.”

The train they catch is mainly carrying German cargo into the so called free zone, the railways having swiftly been commandeered during occupation. Through contacts they are able to hitch a ride hiding in a carriage which holds equipment for the railway exchange - the train’s final destination. It holds little interest for the German soldiers escorting their own cargo, but Helena and Serge board on the understanding that should they be discovered, they are on their own. 

They are but five miles from where they plan to disembark when fate intervenes. As the first carriage slowly coasts under a low derelict bridge there is a huge explosion. Bricks and earth and metal fly through the air, the impact reverberating along the length of the train. It derails, and luckily the rear end remains on the tracks, because the cargo Helena and Serge were sitting alongside could have crushed them. Instead, when the dust settles, they cautiously emerge, unseen by the soldiers who are rushing forward to where the main damage is.

“Let's head for the trees,” Helena tugs at Serge, who is dragging their two duffel bags from behind the sliding door of the train.

They do just that, finding cover while they quickly take stock. 

“We aren’t that far from my cousin’s house in Montbard,” Serge says, “If we stay off the main road, we should be there by nightfall,” 

Helena doesn’t argue, he knows the area. What he doesn’t know, is that fifty feet further on, they will stumble upon the cause of this forced detour. After a few minutes pushing carefully and quietly through thick undergrowth, they walk right into the barrel of a rifle. A huge broad shouldered individual with a thick ginger flecked beard is on the other end, and the hand that is curled around the barrel is missing a middle finger. 

“What do we have here?” he whispers fiercely, “Quickly now!” 

Helena obeys, “We are fleeing Paris,” then she bristles, just as fierce, “do we look like German soldiers to you?”

The man snorts, “Can’t be too careful - unlike you, currently stood there at gunpoint.”

Helena senses amusement in his tone and the crinkle of an eye. He’s clearly high on adrenalin, and so she ignores Serge’s warning squeeze to her elbow. 

“Then lower your gun,” she says with a pained smile. He grunts, and does so. 

“Tell me why you are running from the comforts of the big city,” he asks, and Helena sees no point in lying. 

“I killed a German soldier,” she says it aloud for the first time, and instead of being greeted by the horror she feels, she is presented with a toothy grin and an outstretched hand. When she takes it, he crushes hers with a short sharp shake. 

“Jean Roux,” he says, and with a nod beyond the treeline where a spiral of smoke lazily trails, “the best explosives expert in France.”

\---

_**July 1942** _

Three weeks into their stay at Inverie, Helena delivers a morning briefing to fellow instructors. That afternoon she leads an excursion - another accursed boat trip to stay on the mainland for a purpose that cannot be met where they are. The housekeeper Mrs Danby had insisted she take a tin of peppermints to combat her illness at sea. So, while it didn't cure her fully, she found that if the water was not too rough she could fight the nausea a little better, and recover more quickly. 

They stay at a large guesthouse in Mallaig, and Helena despairs a little when she hears the owner’s overly familiar language with some of her colleagues. This is only her second time at Inverie, but already she is acutely aware that locally their presence was not as clandestine as it should be. When she questioned it, McShane had half agreed with her, but wasn't overly concerned. 

“Helena, we are in uniform, but they don’t know the exact nature of our work here,” he nudged her shoulder, “Nobody would suspect _you_ of what you do.” 

“I just...a loose remark here or there - our purpose, and safety, could be in jeopardy. They,” she indicated their charges, sat outside in the sun waiting to be assigned rooms, “...they need to get accustomed to that very quickly,” 

He fixed her with a glare she knew was meant to be convincing, “And they will. Others have, yes?” 

“Not all of them, as I would hope,” she grumbled.

“There will always be casualties,” He sighed, “Some of _them_ will be, we can only prepare them to the best of our ability.” 

Looking at the group, carefree, chatting, smoking and fooling around, Helena’s eyes drift to a figure sat alone on the low wall edging the driveway. It is Myka Bering, she is gazing out across the gardens, occasionally dipping her head down into the book casually held open in her lap. Helena, rubs the chunky brass key she holds in her palm.

“Let’s get them settled in then,” she says, and pushes out of the door to be met by a sea of eager faces. 

McShane dishes out the keys to two dorm rooms reserved for the men, and Helena gathers Newman, Herbert and Bering, who gives her a smile. It’s one of relief and tentative hope, and Helena aims to return it with a businesslike smile of her own, but she feels her left cheek quiver slightly, so draws in the attention of the other women.

“We are rooming together, ladies,” she says, then pulls out a wicked grin, “So there will be no sneaking out after hours on my watch,” 

Lizzie groans, “Oh Helena, as if we would!” 

Once in the room, Helena takes the bed closest to the door, while a strangely quiet Myka drops her bag on the one adjacent. Lizzie and Mary take the beds on the opposite wall, then leave, intent on locating the communal spaces.

After a few moments worrying at her lip, Myka clears her throat, and breaks the silence, “You’ve been busy these past few weeks...” 

She is seated on her bed, unpacking a few possessions, but then looks at Helena in expectation.

Helena mirrors her position but crosses her legs at the ankles, resting a hand either side of her on the bed, “Yes, a few preparations were required for this little trip.” 

Helena senses Myka is trying to express disappointment of sorts over her absence, but she also recalls Myka’s unhappy expression when Major Sykes pressed a blade to Helena's body.

“I believe you will appreciate this week more,” 

“Oh?” Myka’s interest is piqued, but Helena shakes a finger at her.

“You shall find out soon enough,” she pauses, “How are you...with all of this, I mean?”

Myka appears as though it is the last thing she expected to be asked. 

“I...it’s been good,” she says, then a few beats later, “In the main…” 

Thinking back to her talk with McShane, she prompts Myka. “I'm here to guide, remember?” 

Myka sighs, “Yes…” before confirming Helena’s suspicions, “Honestly I have been fine, until last week…”

Helena decides there's no point procrastinating, “The thought of killing somebody, you mean?” 

Myka winces but confirms with a nod, and pushes her hands up and over her hair frustratedly, as though it's a failure to value life. She starts to pull out pins, loosening her curls, distracting herself with a physical task, distracting Helena a little too. 

“To put it bluntly - the thought of pushing a knife into flesh, deliberately and with intent to kill,” she says quietly, “It doesn’t sit well.”

Helena knows, because she feels the same, but this isn’t about her - until Myka asks the question.

“Have you ever…?” 

Helena doesn't need to hear the rest, and isn't sure she wants to answer, “Is that truly something you wish to know about me?” 

Myka’s lips part, but she bites back her response. Only, a short moment later, her eyes bold yet regretful, she says, “I wish to know many things, Helena.” 

The atmosphere suddenly more intimate, Helena forces herself to sit up straighter and plays with the cuffs on her shirt.

“Twice,” she says into the silence and Myka blinks in confusion, the initial question forgotten.

“One time was accidental, the second time not so,” and Myka thankfully just nods, Helena isn't sure if it's a good thing that she doesn't question her capacity to kill. Another confession flows easily in the face of this acceptance, “There are other deaths, however, that I could have prevented…” 

“I'm sorry - for prying,” Myka says suddenly, understanding evident in her gaze. She lets out a nervous laugh, “You were very proficient with the knife, the boys got a surprise,”

Helena is grateful that Myka steers them away from the topic of her guilt, “I wasn't always so...I picked up many skills in the field, I rather fumbled through it. _That_ little dance I picked up back here in Blighty.” 

“Thankfully, I've never had to use that particular weapon in anger,” she concludes.

Myka tilts her head, curls on one side sliding across her face, and she hooks a finger around to pull them back behind an ear.

“In the field..France, I take it?” 

Helena allows herself the indulgence of a teasing smile, and wags her finger for the second time, glad of a reason to lighten the mood.

“I'm not that easily interrogated, Ms Bering…” 

One corner of Myka’s mouth quirks upwards, then she checks her watch, looks up at the wall clock and seems to relax. She stands, “I'll let you off this once, though I'm sure I won't need to ask later in our stay,” 

“Whatever do you mean?” Helena queries 

“I mean, Helena, that I've noticed the instructors tend to get a little loose lipped, especially at the bar. I have to say, it goes against everything we are being taught,” she turns away, but not before Helena spies a sly smirk, but she rises to it in any case.

“I assure you, I'm no ordinary instructor,”

Myka's head turns, face softening, and is on the verge of responding when Lizzie and Mary barrel in, breathlessly laughing.

“Oh, you have to come see this!” Lizzie breathes, “They are skinny dipping in the harbour!”

Myka rolls her eyes as she’s pushing her empty bag under the bed, while Helena scrunches her nose in disgust.

“Bloody hell,” she mutters, having forgotten how fond certain officers were of their silly rituals, “there's team bonding and there's idiocy…” 

Lizzie is dismayed, “Oh, we won’t have to join in, do we?”

Helena scoffs, “Not a chance,” then winks “now let us go bond over a decent cup of tea,” 

The following days are spent at the railway terminus, Mallaig being the end of the line from Glasgow. Helena takes the lead in teaching the art of the saboteur, and she revels in displaying her knowledge of the trains, their engines, the tracks they run on and of course the various means to disrupt. The trainees are attentive when she talks about switching labels on enemy luggage, sprinkling rock salt into signal electrics, or loosening couplings between carriages. They are tasked with devising their own ideas, and she watches them stroll up and down the length of a train, inside and out; and sighs when she gets a knowing wave and ‘keep up the good work!’ from the driver of an engine as it coasts out of the yard. She is, however, pleased with the group’s own suggestions.

“Sometimes the simplest idea is the best,” she says, “Do not overstretch your capabilities or you will endanger yourself and others.” 

It’s the preamble to the next stage of the week, covering the preparation and setting of explosive charges. Before that, she delights in seeing the faces of those who she knows doubt her knowledge, as she jumps up onto the plate of a steam engine and proceeds to explain then demonstrate how to drive and control it. Each student must crawl underneath the engine to discover its secrets, it's potential weak points for sabotage or destruction.

The last body to shuffle under, ungainly and with a muttered curse, is Myka. Torch in hand, she huffs as she pulls herself alongside Helena, her hair is tightly bound, but a single lock has worked free to plaster across her forehead. They are on their backs looking up into the greasy belly of _The Great Marquess_ , a sixty-eight ton beast. When Myka angles her head to face her, bright eyed and pink cheeked, they are a ruler’s length apart. Helena stutters in her recitation of the mechanics but Myka doesn't seem to notice, she is rapt, taking it all in and turning away almost immediately to shine her torch along the huge axles above. 

Soon, Helena has finished an overview of how to disable but not incapacitate the train engine through the use of explosive charges. She feels Myka turns her head to face her once more and forces herself to remain firmly fixed on the workings above.

“Now that I am under here, I think I understand even more why you enjoyed laying beneath that car for the better part of a morning,” Myka says, and Helena can't help the smile that forms on her face as she pretends to inspect for faults.

“Oh?” she says casually.

“Yes...despite the muck and the oil, despite the sore back and cramped arms,” she says, and Helena can hear the smirk in her voice, “it offers a strange kind of peace.”

Helena turns now. Under cover, Myka's eyes are darkened but they are gentle and understanding - an echo of their conversation in the bedroom. 

Helena’s throat is dry from overuse and she coughs lightly, “Peace with purpose, not the type that requires filling with unwanted thoughts…you find similar in reading.” 

It’s a statement not a question, and Myka’s ghost of a smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“I do,” she says, “and...oh!” she brings a hand to her mouth, “I must return the book you suggested - I took it with me from the first house, I hadn’t meant to!” 

Helena laughs at her panic, “Oh Myka, don't fret, I'm sure they haven't missed it - keep it, a gift from me…”

Myka frowns, “Is it yours to give?”

“It is now,” Helena says firmly and then jumps when she feels a firm tap on her booted feet, and the voice of a colleague drifts down.

“Come one, Wells, let's get the show on the road!” 

Helena chuckles quietly at Myka's continued frown and subsequent hurried exit, but sobers quickly once she is alone. She wonders if there will come a time when there will be no interruption, and how, then, she will find it in herself not to fall so easily into this feeling of comfort, and tip over the edge of the precipice she feels to be teetering on. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Silent killing and the street fighting style was added to the SOE syllabus in June 1942. William Fairbairn and Eric Sykes were commisioned to instruct their own course. They had been police in the Shanghai Municipal Police and designed the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of B&W in this one as their time in Scotland draws to a close. Oh, and _someone_ had suggested it was set up for a bit of B &W sparring...

_**April 1941** _

Myka sat outside the sparsely decorated cafe in the morning sun, a newspaper folded in one hand, the fingers of her other resting lightly against the handle of a coffee cup. This was her morning ritual, it was not out of the ordinary for her to be there - she had greeted the owner with a smile as usual, ordered a simple breakfast, and scoured the paper while watching people pass by. Today she also knew the weight of a hardbacked copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in her bag. It had been placed on her usual seat, tucked under the table in a brown paper bag as though purchased and mistakenly forgotten by its new owner. _This_ was also a ritual, though not so regular or predictable. Once she hadn’t received a new parcel for a full three weeks and she’d feared trouble was around the corner. 

Yet here she was, still, spring in the air and a far cry from the cold January day she had been approached by a man who she had been expecting, though ignorant of his actual appearance. She recalls being extremely wary despite trusting the source of the contact implicitly, because Lyon was full of people on all sides of the war - Pétainists, resitant French, Germans, Communists, diplomats of so-called neutral countries - all with their agendas. There was no clear dividing line except for her, the one which saw her choosing to use her position as an accredited journalist to communicate information through articles sent to New York. 

A shadow falls over her and when she looks up she smiles warmly, it is her original source. 

“Sam…” she half stands to accept a kiss to the cheek and he flops down in the chair opposite, placing his hat on the table. 

“I’ve ordered you another, is that ok?” he gestures at her drink.

“You know it is, Sam,” she says. 

“Black, yes?”

“Is there any other choice nowadays…” she grimaces. The shortage of milk means she has acquired a taste for the treacle like coffee served up in most cafes. It’s a staple of her day now.

Sam joins her each morning should his schedule at the Consulate allow it, doing no harm to help maintain the veneer of courtship they resumed after the journey south from Paris. Myka hadn’t wanted to pretend, but Sam had insisted she would be safer and she had relented in the face of his worry. It meant only that they met more frequently even than they had when they had been together in Paris, and while Myka had already settled into viewing Sam with the love of a best friend, she knew that transition had been harder for him.

He lights a cigarette, offers her one as always, she declines as always.

“Why do you insist on offering them every time?” She laughs, “It’s not as though us lowly women are entitled to a ration anymore.” 

He laughs with her, “Precisely! Myka, I can share you know.”

Myka enjoys the brief feeling of normalcy Sam provides every time they meet. She knows it is deliberate, he reads her too easily and seeks to relax her with a few choice words if he can. They meet so early that they can usually speak freely, though quietly, heads together like sweethearts. He relays details to be communicated through her articles so as not to compromise sympathetic sources in the French government. Though not in the war, the U.S. would communicate with the British, and shore up intelligence for what many saw to be inevitable. She never tells Sam the title of the book in her bag, and she is not entirely sure he is even aware of that aspect of the arrangement. It is the latest key to the code she will use for all correspondence up until she finds a new paper bag awaiting her. 

She doesn’t let herself ponder on the dangers involved, viewing it as a moral duty to help people such as the inventor seeking safe passage to America that Sam is now discussing. The man has designs and patents he will gladly supply and improve in return for a new home for him and his family, far from his hostile employers in Germany. This refugee has something to offer, others don’t, but she knows that Sam is aiding another middleman by providing Visas and papers to people who their own Government's guidelines say he shouldn’t. 

At the end of ‘official’ business, Sam suddenly stutters and blushes, it’s so unlike him that Myka stifles a tease and waits for him to speak. 

“I...I may have met someone,” he says quietly, averting his eyes but Myka shifts her head to catch them. She feels a jolt of something, it’s not jealousy, or sadness, but...concern.

“Oh...do tell?” She keeps her voice light and encouraging, but he remains sheepish and she knows this is important to him, “It’s ok, I know I can’t keep you as my pretend boyfriend forever, Sam,” she smiles encouragingly. 

He lets out a huge sigh and flashes what she decided is an unreadable look, it’s better than the briefest sign of annoyance she thinks she sees. 

“She is called Marie, she is French,” he smiles as he says her name and Myka is reminded of lazy summer evenings back home. 

“Where did you meet?” 

“She’s a nurse at the hospital, I was called there for a citizen who’d been involved in an accident,” he says, “She saw that I had scalded my hand in hot water that morning but had done nothing…she bandaged it for me.”

Myka chuckles, “Very smooth, Sam Martino,” and he shrugs but she takes his hand, a sobering thought prompting her to speak again. “She’s good, yes? You’ve checked her out…?”

“Of course, I’m being careful Myka, it’s my job,” he offers his best reassuring smile, “I don’t give away my secrets to just anyone, you know.”

He squeezes her hand and lets go, and she convinces herself be reassured by his confidence in the situation. Soon, it will mean that their own little cover has to alter, but she decides to let him take the lead on that. For her, as long as he is safe that is what matters. 

A few months later, Myka finds herself enjoying the June sunshine with Marie, waiting for Sam to join them for lunch in the park. She has discovered that Marie is not unlike herself when Sam first met her. Though talented in her own field, she lacked confidence in herself and felt reassured by Sam’s charm and steady presence. Myka wondered if Marie would outgrow Sam in the same way, or if meeting during a tumultuous time was what would make them. Marie had found her calling, her freedom, already - and in Sam she perhaps would see a future after all was said and done. 

As it was, yet more change was on it’s way, and it was Sam who brought news of it. He suddenly appeared, flustered and walking briskly to their comfortable spot under a tree abundant with new growth. 

“They’re closing the Consulate!” he huffed, a thick shock of blonde hair falling over his brow. He pushed it back irritably, “Relocating us to Vichy…” 

He was addressing Myka, but then his eyes softened as they moved to Marie, who had pushed up onto her knees ready to greet him with a kiss to each cheek. He dipped down, mumbling an endearment in her ear and Myka turned away, conscious of the things he would at one time have whispered to her. He sat back cross legged and grabbed a slice of bread while Marie poured him a drink. 

“Is this just a rumour Sam?” Myka wanted clarification, as he could be prone to exaggeration. 

“I wish it were, damn Pétain wants us out within the month,” 

“Hush, Sam,” Marie said, glancing around, but there was nobody within earshot. He looked contrite all the same.

“Sorry, I’m just so frustrated, we were helping…” Myka glares at him and he halts his flow of words, “We were helping keep supplies flowing in, for everyone.”

Myka silently breathes a sigh of relief, as they’d agreed not to include Marie in any knowledge their activities aiding those seeking refuge or passage abroad. Though Sam was smitten, he had bowed to Myka’s caution, recognising that it was not only his risk to take. 

They are leaning closer together, and Myka decides to take her leave and return to her hotel which, like many others had been commandeered by the government or other agencies. Once in her room, she seeks out the book she has hidden behind the vent in the wall high up and to the right of the one window in the room. _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_ , when she had slid it out of it’s paper bag, had elicited a chuckle from her, a small delight in its aptness for the situation she found herself in. Even now as she locates the pages she needs, and completes her latest variation of an article on the brave, resourceful free French, she feels removed from what she is doing. She knows that her writing, the short messages she encodes, have helped individuals and contributed to the efforts of her country. However, she has never met those impacted, only knows from what Sam has told her that there are still good things happening, and good people other than themselves making a difference. She wonders if this is her lot, to be relatively untouched, or if the impending move to Vichy for embassy staff will prove a catalyst for a change in all their fortunes.

\----  


 

_**August 1942** _

Myka stands observing some of the new arrivals spar on the lawn, a few days into the training that she has now almost completed. They have been at Inverie almost six weeks now, and will be sent home in a matter of days. There's one more exercise to complete, a dummy mission similar to that which they'd completed when Helena had taken them to the Laggan Dam following their sabotage and explosives training. She smiles at memories from weeks ago. Helena had challenged groups to set the correct charges on the huge dam, and only Myka’s had scored perfectly. Not so perfect was what followed, when the instructors had abandoned them with minimal supplies and a basic lay of the land on a rudimentary map. Their instructions were to meet back at Mallaig in two days time or risk missing the trip back across the water. The party Myka was part of barely made it in time, no thanks to a wrong turn at a misaligned signpost, and lucky that a local farmer had given them a ride, persuaded by her accent and a broad smile. 

“Ow!” she yells as a bright tennis ball hits her square between the shoulder blades, pulling her out of her reverie. She spins, and Wolly is grinning at her from up on the grass bank where he is sat with Helena and Lizzie. 

“We need you to settle a bet, Myka!” 

“I’m so sorry! - in advance...” Helena shrugs half heartedly.

Confused, Myka stalks up to them, and Helena pushes herself up onto her feet, brushing her backside free of dry grass cuttings. 

“Lizzie and I think that you could take Helena in a one on one, now that we've nearly graduated,” Wolly says with an innocent smile and a quick flick of his hand at the new trainees, “What do you say?”

“Urrm…” Myka hesitates, Helena has her head cocked in question and reverse links her fingers to push out and stretch her arms in challenge.

“Myka, they've wounded my pride,” she says, “give me the chance to prove them wrong.”

Myka chokes out a laugh, “By letting you beat me up?!” 

Lizzie waves a hand, “No, no Myka this isn't the attitude! We think you are strong enough to win...!” 

Myka sighs, “Come on then, English,” she says but smirks because Helena is clearly primed and ready, now tying her hair back in a knot before she scampers down the grassy bank. 

“Wolly, you umpire, no foul play…” Helena yells and Myka snorts, not believing for a second that she won't employ dirty tactics to win. 

They square up across a mat, Myka rubs her hands and they both look up at Wolly who has joined them. Lizzie is bouncing in anticipation having called over some other recruits hanging around outside.

Wolly raises an arm between them, then brings it down in a sweeping motion, “Ready, Set, Go!” 

Helena rolls her eyes at his dramatics, but Myka refuses to be distracted and wastes no time in pressing forward in the hopes of catching her opponent by surprise. Their arms lock, her hands grip Helena's small shoulders, and she feels Helena’s fingers firmly digging into her biceps. Myka is surprised by Helena's strength as she resists, stubbornly refusing to crumble under the pressure Myka applies. After a few minutes of back and forth, of playful words, Helena’s agility tells when she suddenly twists in Myka's grasp, dipping down and lunging for her left leg - then pushing with her shoulder and lifting in an attempt to unbalance. It works, Myka grunts with frustration as she topples forward, but her weight and momentum allows her to roll out of any grip Helena was hoping to maintain. She spins on the soles of her feet, crouched low, and is able to launch forward in time to wrap her left arm around Helena's pale, straining neck, bringing her right up and across the chest beneath. 

Myka holds still for a moment, gathering breath but suddenly very aware of the press of her breasts against Helena's taught back. She concentrates on the feel of rough material under one hand, but the skin of her left arm lies against warm undulating skin where Helena slowly swallows. A low, contemplative hum vibrates along that same arm, and Myka barely has time to register the tingle of downy hair standing on end...before two swifts jabs into her ribs leave her winded and gasping.

Helena growls playfully and Myka, surprised, loosens an arm which is quickly yanked even as Myka hears Lizzie’s high pitched yells of encouragement. Helena dips low again and pulls Myka over and across, dropping her flat onto her back before straddling her, pinning her arms at her sides and digging her knees sharply into Myka’s hipbones. 

“Do you concede?” Helena’s brow raises in amusement, and Myka frowns in response, unhappy at being bested so quickly and shaking her head stubbornly. She bucks and twists, but Helena only digs in harder.

Myka considers her position, “You can’t keep me like this forever, you haven’t secured your prisoner,” 

Helena chuckles, “No. But tell me, Colorado, how you will escape, eh?”

Myka has a sudden thought - she doesn’t want to. The physical contact is not unpleasant, and Helena’s playful demeanour and relaxed attitude is always a little infectious.

“Perhaps I don’t wish too,” she smirks, “After all it is a lovely day, perhaps I’ll sunbathe..”

Helena laughs loudly, and calls to Wolly, who strangely had taken a few steps back from them. 

“Wolly, your pal here has conceded that she is happy to remain where she is - I’d say I’ve secured the prisoner wouldn’t you?”

Myka yelps, “Hey now! That’s not what I...” 

“‘Fraid so, Myka, Ms Wells has you there,” his eyes sparkle, and he offers Helena his hand before doing the same for Myka.

Brushing debris from her bare arms, Myka spies Helena’s eyes following her movement and she feels her cheeks flush. 

“You’ll have to teach me how to maintain that - and get out of it...” she says quietly, begrudgingly, fighting the smile at her lips. 

Helena’s own smile seems uncharacteristically tentative, “Of course, I can’t have you at a disadvantage, Myka.”

Then she grins, turning to address the small audience they’ve attracted, “Who next?!” 

\----

Two nights before they are due to go their separate ways, an impromptu dance floor is set up in the large meeting room on the first floor of the house. It's not a new occurrence, but it’s the first time Helena hadn’t been away at the time. Now, Myka watches as Helena dances with McShane, it's lighthearted fun, an approximation of the jive, but Myka finds herself anxious at the sight. 

“Got your eye on someone eh?” she startles at Wolly’s low voice in her ear and she pushes his shoulder with no real force. 

“Wolly! He's our instructor…!” she says with a mock glare, “And in any case, no.”

Her eyes her slyly, then grins and holds out a hand to lead her into the floor, employing his knack of pulling her out of her uneasy state. Later, Myka has taken a few turns dancing with Wolly, and one of the rather inebriated Poles. Then Lizzie drags her to the centre of the room, teasing her when she takes the lead, 

“Just because you are taller Myka, doesn’t mean you get to be the man!” 

“Hey, I’ve danced at Parisian balls I’ll have you know...I think I’m entitled to lead”

LIzzie’s eyes turn misty, “How romantic!”

Myka spins in their semi formal dance, a hand pressed to Lizzie's back while Lizzie’s right hand rests on Myka’s shoulder. Her line of sight as they cease their twirl has her looking directly at Helena, who smirks when Wolly whispers in her ear as he watches their movement. The light is starting to dim outside and she realises that she desires a turn with Helena - the thought of which has Myka at once nervous and thrilled. 

When they'd stayed in the guest house at Mallaig, they'd often whispered late into the night - all four of them in the room, but then Myka and Helena would always be last to drift off. She feels as though she knows Helena without full knowledge of her life. She understands that she has a deeper story to tell, that she is coming to terms with events in her past, and that she refuses to let it colour her future. Myka can identify with that to some extent, and admires Helena's obvious strength and intelligence. She finds a beauty in her mannerisms, her sharp edges, soft laughter, and obvious concern for those under her care. Myka is sad at the thought that when she leaves this place, then Helena may leave her life too. 

These thoughts are in her head when her dances with Lizzie are over, and she becomes aware that Helena has moved to the doorway. She is sipping on a drink and surveying the room as though committing to memory faces she may never see again. When her gaze lands on Myka she smiles briefly, but her expression is strangely emotionless, and before Myka has chance to make a gesture of invitation to dance, Helena has turned and left.

Deflated, Myka heads over to join a group by the gramophone, but after five minutes feels the need to clear her head. The strains of a jaunty Benny Goodman standard linger in the evening air as she steps out onto a small balcony, closing the glass panelled double doors behind her. Pushing the sleeves of her blouse up to her elbows, she leans on the railing, closing her eyes to savour the slight breeze. A drift of tobacco smoke reaches her senses, and under the tree below a figure is leant casually, the intermittent appearance of a bright orange glow signalling their indulgence. She feels a happy tug knowing who it is, and so she climbs carefully over the balcony railing and scoots down metal escape ladders, thankful not to be wearing her one pair of precious nylons. She drops with a clumsy thud, missing the final two rungs, and she grimaces at her own lack of stealth. 

"Oh Myka darling, it's lucky we are not in Paris, and that I am not an agent of Herr Fuhrer" Helena says, turning to lean sideways against rough bark, lazily tapping ash from the cigarette.

"And I'm _sure_ that is precisely what an agent of Herr Fuhrer would say" Myka’s sarcasm sees Helena hum in amusement. "If I wished to sneak up on you Miss Wells, I would have done so," Myka smiles.

Helena offers the cigarette to Myka, "And yet here we are in any case, suddenly in a clandestine meeting..."

Myka holds a hand up, "I don't smoke" she says.

Helena laughs, "How did I not know that...Of course you wouldn't” 

It’s the same tone she’s used before only this time Myka can’t decide if it is condescending or merely teasing.

“Have you ever tried?" Helena enquires, taking a delicate puff.

Myka shakes her head, mutters about it being somewhat unnatural to draw bitter, grey air into her lungs, though she is mesmerised by the tip of the offered cigarette.

"You should - have the experience I mean - they can be useful props, or conversation starters..." Helena says with a calm intensity. Another titbit offered when the true reason for their training is still to be acknowledged in an official capacity.

The cigarette's paper tip is a muted shade of red from the lipstick Helena wears, and Myka feels her hand rise up to take it from Helena's cool fingers. Her eyes don't leave Helena's as she brings the stick up to her lips, tasting wet paper and a slight red tackiness. She wonders if Helena's mouth tastes the same, and almost immediately coughs on the warm, acrid taste. Myka feels the tinge of embarrassment reach her cheeks, but also the flat warm comfort of a firm hand rubbing her back. 

"Most people splutter a little," Helena has a sympathetic smile, "again - but suck it all the way into your lungs, not just your mouth..."

Myka does and it's less of a shock - a slight cough as she blows out, and she feels a little on edge from the sensation - it's a pleasant thrill. She's not sure if the heady feeling is due to the tobacco, or the feel of the hand now resting low where her back starts to dip towards the band of her standard issue skirt. 

"I only partake once in awhile. I suppose it could be considered unnatural, but it's warming, and comforting, and maybe a little addictive," Helena says, dropping her hand as she takes the cigarette back from Myka. She holds Myka’s gaze as she takes a drag herself, and it feels like a challenge.

"I guess I'll need to practice," Myka sighs, recognising the useful advice, and Helena laughs softly, a glint in her eye before she turns to look out over the dark expanse of the gardens.

“Tell me,” she says, after a moment or two, “what happened when you got out of France?”

“My file…”

“Is limited..as I've said previously, though it seems you don't believe me,” Helena quirks an eyebrow, “Besides, I prefer to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.” 

She hasn’t turned back yet, and Myka wonders if Helena is creating distance again. It seems to happen when they’ve shared a moment of closeness, of friendship. Helena would always be so professional with Myka in the daylight after their nighttime whispers at Mallaig. 

Myka shifts uncomfortably, sighs, “You know already that we - Sam and I - relocated to Lyon and then to Vichy. I juggled a little dull Embassy work with press duties.”

“I wonder, would we have been friends, had we met?” Helena says out of nowhere, her thoughts seemingly jumping all over, “You see, I believe there were some months when we would have lived in Paris at the same time…”

Myka smiles broadly at that, “I’d like to think so,” and just like that she feels the shift back into something more than teacher and trainee.

Helena does face her now, and pushes off the tree where she's still leant, “It’s a pleasant evening, shall we walk while you tell me your story?”

They stroll down the dip onto the flat lawn, making their way to the path along the Loch’s edge. Helena casually slips her arm through Myka’s as though it’s a common occurrence. Their bare arms touch where Myka’s blouse is bunched, and Helena’s hand rests lightly above her wrist. Myka’s senses tell her the contact feels good, much as it had the previous afternoon when they’d grappled on the grass. Only, rather than warm and muscular breathlessness, Myka now appreciates the comforting, calming assurance of their proximity. Helena sets a leisurely pace, and Myka calculates the sun has around an hour before it fully disappears behind the hills. 

“Vichy was a miniature Paris” Myka breaks the silence before Helena presses, “the government, foreign embassies, diplomats, press, the remainder of the French army - all in this provincial spa town. A beautiful part of the world, but an ugly time.” 

She talks about their life in the so called free zone, the realities of food shortages for everyday people, the paranoia and control exerted by Pétain’s puppet government and enforcement of so called traditional values.

“I had a colleague who worked for a French magazine, she was excellent,” Myka recalls, “It didn’t stop her being fired on the grounds that married women should stay in the home and reproduce.” 

Myka feels comfortable in Helena’s silence and the reassuring squeeze of her arm - she can imagine she is speaking only to the evening air, that no judgement will be forthcoming. Still, a little later when she decides to open up, she's unsure how Helena will interpret a confession. 

“Sam and I…we had neglected our relationship for a while. I was so busy supplying articles and he - well, a diplomat in a country at war...”

“You were enjoying your careers, Myka, there’s no shame in that,” Helena says with an encouraging smile. 

This easy acceptance puts Myka at ease as it so often did for others who found themselves brought under Helena’s wing here in Inverie. 

“Yes” she breathes, “I loved what I did, loved it. I often wonder whether I should have waited, been more persistent, and I’d have been doing that now instead of…whatever this is.”

Helena laughs, “Instead of taking this lovely evening stroll with me, Myka Bering?”

It's almost flirtatious, but then she stops short, suddenly serious, “Know this - we are very lucky to have you here. You will...you will do much good.”

Helena sounds reluctant to say those words but resigned to them, and Myka almost makes that very observation, but she suddenly recalls their fireside chat at Wanborough. At the time she’d suspected that their instructors knew an awful lot more than they intimated. 

“Remember you asked me about the Seine - the romantic boat rides?”

Helena thinks for a moment, frowns, “I don't recall saying they were romantic,”

“I could see your face, Helena,” Myka doesn't feel the need to elaborate, and waves her free hand, “no matter - the one time I did go on that trip, Sam asked me to marry him. The second and final time.”

“Ah,” Helena says, and her expression softens slightly.

“We separated amicably in Paris, but we made a conscious effort to appear together after the move south,” Myka shrugs, “The atmosphere, the rumours, it helped me to be attached, while my nationality - my neutrality as an American protected me from their statutes.”

“But acquaintances weren’t so fortunate.” Helena prompts, it’s not a question.

“No, the government, the army, the police - collaboration came naturally to them - they were in power, why should they put themselves at risk? I...we...felt helpless, at first,” her eyes flash brightly, as she turns her head up to the evening sky. “On the surface our government accepted the situation, and we were living it.”

“I was approached by another journalist who had connections with the embassy, and it led to my passing on messages through the newspaper,” Myka remembers the nervousness she’d felt the first time she had filed a coded piece. It became easier as she grew more adept and rigidly followed the procedure that kept her and others safe. 

Helena says, “And Sam?” 

“It was Sam who put us in contact. Unbeknownst to me, he was aiding those seeking escape routes to America,” she chuckles fondly, “he came to me with a problem a ‘friend’ had, I saw right through it of course.”

Myka had been cross with Sam for not asking for her help sooner, but he'd insisted he wanted to protect her in case he was uncovered. 

“Is that what happened…?” Helena says, kicking at a loose stone on the pathway, “His activities were discovered, and yours?”

Myka shakes her head, “Not through our mistakes, rather through trusting the wrong person…”

“I’m sorry,” Helena grimaces, “this war, it turns people against those it shouldn't.”

Myka suddenly feels as she did then, impotent, angry, sad and scared. She stops, and Helena clearly senses her discomfort, unlinking their arms and turning into her space.

“Helena, can we...?” She stops, draws a breath, “I don’t feel like going into it now.” 

“Of course,” 

Myka knows that Helena has her own demons to share, and may never do so, but she understands. Myka blinks away the threat of tears before they can form, swallows and shakes her head. Not trusting her voice just yet, she lifts her arm open at her side, and Helena takes the hint, slipping her own back under, and Myka feels calmer. 

They walk awhile, having already turned back and soon their walk is reaching it’s end, the sun is almost set and a tall hedge guards them from the lights of the house.

Helena suddenly stops them, her voice rough around the edges, “Myka…”

“I just wanted to reassure you...you may not think you were doing much, but you are a very brave woman,” she whispers, and inclines her head with what Myka thinks is an attempt to finally lighten the mood and conclude their walk on a teasing note, “Perhaps you should be the teacher instead.”

Myka is emotionally drained, but finds a modicum of strength in Helena’s gaze though she can’t quite pull herself out of her melancholy, “ _I_ was lucky, very lucky. In the end...”

Their linked arms have naturally found a new comfort - Helena’s hand holds Myka’s loosely between them. Her other reaches up, and she places a reassuring palm lightly against the flat of Myka's shoulder. It puts Myka in mind of their sparring match, though this touch is gentle, the push pull now emotional rather than physical. 

“It won’t be the first regret you have, the first uncertainty you have to live with…you may never know what happened to Sam,” 

Helena’s voice is so low, oozing with warmth despite the reality of the words. Myka’s eyes flutter closed, because she knows this, hopes it’s not true. When she opens them again, Helena’s eyes are darkened in the twilight. Myka drops her gaze to regard their hands and rubs her thumb across Helena's knuckles, it's a question, _is this merely comfort, or something else?_.  
Tentatively, Helena places a soft kiss against her cheek and heat blooms up Myka’s neck, for Helena is now murmuring close to her ear.

“ _Do_ know that you are special, Myka Bering.”

Helena lingers a moment, breathing lightly against her cheek while the tingle of anticipation spikes along her arms. 

Myka finds her voice, however quiet it sounds to her own ears, “Helena…” 

But she pulls away, drops Myka’s hand and steps back a few paces, it seems only now becoming aware of her own actions. Her eyes dart away to the side, while Myka is rendered a little speechless by the words, by the intimacy of seconds ago.

Myka opts for honesty, “I wanted to dance with you.”

Helena’s eyes find hers, and they are set firm, “I know - but this is..I’m not sure..”

Myka steps forward, reaches down so that she now clasps their hands together, and once more caresses Helena's skin. 

“Neither am I, but yet here we are, and we won't be in two days time.”

Helena’s head is bowed, she draws in a shuddering breath and Myka prepares herself for rejection. She prepares herself to know only the sensation of Helena’s palms flat against hers as she teaches her to ignite kindling, of her strong grip in a wrestling match, of a single kiss to her cheek. These things and more, Helena’s arms greased and shining in the sun, her hair falling loose over her ears, the glint in her eyes over a hand of cards. These have brought Myka to this point of wanting more than. Strangely, it is the thought of Sam that has proved a catalyst. Their connection wasn’t strong enough, and Myka recognises now that her connection to Helena is too strong. 

It seems that Helena concurs. With a sudden movement, Helena’s lips are a mere inch from hers. Her breath is a tangible force, pushing out a question.

“Yes?” 

“Helena, yes..” Myka answers, her senses at full capacity as Helena tenderly kisses the corner of her mouth. 

The faint essence of tobacco and lipstick causes Myka to smile, but almost instantly she finds herself impatient so turns her head, parting her lips because they are here, they are alone, and she may never feel this again. Their mouths meet fully, slow and soft, and Myka tightens her grip on Helena’s hands. _This is good_ , she is saying, _let’s not stop_.

It lasts barely seconds before there is a sudden burst of sound from the house. Music and laughter tumbles into the night air, breaking them apart, staring at each other with a mixture of affection, wonder, and the realisation of when and where they are. 

Helena throatily groans in frustration when there is a loud, barking call from above, “Wells!” 

She breaks eye contact, her hands briefly ball into fists before she links a fairly dazed Myka’s arm, turning them to walk along the path as though it is what they were doing but a moment ago.

“Let’s go in, shall we, I should imagine they are on to party games by now,” the intimacy is gone, but then she offers Myka an apologetic smile, “We are clearly missed…”

As they round the path into the hazy glow from the house, Helena waves up at the balcony where people are talking and laughing. 

“Hi, Ho! Who was calling?” she yells up and naturally pulls her arm away from Myka’s as she moves closer to the house. Myka follows, fighting the urge to rub at her mouth. 

The booming voice of McShane invades the night. 

“Bloody hell, Wells, where have you been - I need my partner in crime!”

Helena winces, mutters quietly, “Thanks a bunch, Liam,” then she calls up, “What have you got me into now, I wonder!” 

Myka follows, bracing herself for the inevitable raucousness of the party, the moment has passed and she fears it may be the only such moment. She is not naive, the idea of two women together was alien to her before she lived in Paris, but what she knew of was always hidden, accepted only in small circles. At the time she had never considered if she would ever reciprocate an advance, until now. She was unequivocally drawn to Helena, who seemed at once both attainable and unattainable. Having felt her touch, the sweetness of their kiss, Myka knew for certain that Helena was drawn to her also.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some interesting items:  
> \- Harry Bingham in the US Consulate worked with writer Varian Fry worked with to aid many escapees by providing visas and permits that went against own country guidelines.  
> \- France 1941 men were limited to 2x 4pack cigarettes per week, women to none.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before. Helena in France. Plus, London beckons on a break from training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It's been a relatively long time since my previous post.  
> However, shit happens, and it did. I'm trying to get back into the groove (still), and have been on some brilliant creative writing workshops too - thinking I'll now eventually expand into non fanfic areas. Available headspace is just a bit sparse at present, so I'm apportioning energy back to this as and when. Hopefully some kind of routine will return at some point. :)
> 
> p.s. I also realise it's shorter than average...

**_August 1942_ **

Helena lays in bed, sheets flung off legs bare below a white cotton nightgown, while her eyes trace patterns in the cracked plaster of the ceiling. She tells herself her sleep is disturbed because it is too warm, though the window is propped open to entice any available breeze. She wants to brew a pot of tea and stand on the back lawn but it carries the risk of bumping into a certain other early riser. She touches her mouth, rolls her bottom lip under a finger and taps her chin.

“Blast it…” she mumbles, and tumbles out of bed, pulling on a housecoat. 

She almost turns back when she sees a dim light in the study, but curiosity wins out. It's close to 6am, most people having retired to bed at midnight following the frivolities. She's somewhere between relieved and disappointed to discover it's not Myka occupying the room. Liam McShane’s broad shoulders are relaxed, his head is turned down, ignorant of her entrance. Wolly is stretched the length of the sofa, his head rests on Liam's thigh, sleeping while. Liam's fingers gently thread through his short brown hair. A lamp casts a muted yellow light and it feels intimate in a way that Helena recognises. 

He sees her then, his eyes contain a flash of fear, swiftly followed by relief.

“Oh, Helena, thank the gods,” he whispers.

“Would you like some tea, Liam?” she asks, by way of invitation to extricate himself from a compromising position.

He sighs, “That's...that's a good idea. Thank you Helena,”

Carefully, he places a cushion under Wolly's head then follows her to the kitchen. 

A short time later they are stood outside, blankets thrown about their shoulders, observing the slow creep of dawn. 

Liam slurps his tea, a habit Helena often chastises him for, but not today. 

“So…” she opens, “There was I, thinking Mr Wolcott had taken a shine to _me_ ”

He grunts, throwing her a playful glance, “I don't think you are so far off the mark there, Helena,”

“If you say so. But I'm not the only one I take it?”

“We've agreed that's it, when we leave,” he sighs, “It's unlikely we’ll cross paths again in the programme…”

Helena wasn't surprised by finding Liam McShane in a tender situation with a man, only that it was happening there, and now. He occasionally succumbed, but remained professional - for the most part - it was how Helena had discovered he preferred men. She had mischievously ranked, by attractiveness, the first training cohort they'd met,and he'd disagreed quite enthusiastically on one ranking with a hot tinge of colour to his cheeks. Later that night she had felt the need to reassure him of her discretion, and they'd had each other's backs ever since.

“There may be time off duty?” She prompts, because there's a true sadness about him she hasn't seen before.

“It would only prolong the torture…” McShane drains the last of his drink, “I'm going to try get a few hours sleep.”

They hug, then he lumbers back up to the house, a weight on his shoulders. Not for the first time Helena’s thoughts turn to Myka who had last night given her an invitation that, lost in intimacy, she let herself accept. She considers now whether the unambiguous thrill their brief kiss elicited had been merely a tease. Though Liam's words ring in her ear, she's not entirely sure she can be so strong as to deny Myka should she want to explore their connection. Though her words had been confident, Myka’s eyes had held a desperate hope in them, reaching for something she feared she would lose as soon as it passed. 

In truth, Helena knew they would both lose. Perhaps not now or when the next training camp ended, but certainly once Myka was deployed. Helena grips her now empty mug tightly, resolved, until she hears the light padding of approaching footsteps. She bites her lip when the approaching figure voices a playful moniker.

“Up early again, English?” 

And, oh, Helena’s resolve is crumbling before she has had chance to voice it. The knowledge each shares of the other, the remembrance of brief moments even before last night - even these pale as Myka herself draws level, allowing their arms to brush.

“It's the best time to think clearly,” Helena’s voice is surprisingly calm.

“I suppose it is. Helena, I -”

“Myka, remember, we are leaving tomorrow.” 

Myka turns and positions herself in front of Helena, a challenge in her eyes.

“I do remember,” she whispers, “Does that mean I won't see you again?” 

Helena falters, it's a question she _should_ know the answer to, “There are too many ifs and buts, Myka-”

“I just want to hug you right now, you look like you need it,” Myka interrupts with a rueful, determined expression, “besides anything else, you are my friend now, Helena, and in this day and age I think we all need to cling to the good things while we can.” 

It's clear they both know of loss and regret, this may lead to more of the same. Yet. Helena thinks of the one secret always dearest to her heart, of the unexpected joy it brought from a terrible time, so she is fully aware of Myka’s sentiment.

“You know, old me would probably just accept rejection and leave you here,” Myka’s hand moves to touch Helena’s but she stops herself, and Helena is thankful she hasn't forgotten where they are. “Today, I just want to live a little, is that so wrong?”

“No, no it's not,” Helena pinches the bridge of her nose, then allows herself to relax a tad, “So, friend, what did you have in mind?” 

Myka dips her head, trying to hide a quick, victorious grin before she resumes their side by side position.

“Myself, Wolly and Lizzie will all be in London until whatever comes next,” she says, “We hoped maybe you’d introduce us to one of those dance bars you frequented...would you?” 

The last two word are softly spoken, and it's a request to meet up away from this environment, but not alone nor seemingly weighted with expectations of anything beyond a good time with friends. Helena finds the thought of such an outing appealing. 

“I may visit the capital at some point, so should it coincide then yes, that would be possible,” 

She turns to see Myka’s wide smile and she knows with certainty she will, at some point in the future, regret this moment.

\-----

**_November 1940 - Bourgogne region of France_ **

They were on the move for the fifth time in two weeks. Under cover of darkness Helena slung a duffel bag over her shoulder and slipped out of the abandoned farmhouse, wrapping up their remaining bread as she did so. Serge and two others had departed minutes earlier, leaving Helena to complete a final sweep of the rooms, her eye for detail invaluable as they sought to leave no trace of their temporary occupation. The house had been unoccupied for some time but the local Wehrmacht was known to comb the area for signs of budding resistance groups. Though word on the ground was that resistance was sparse, it was known that disparate groups were beginning to communicate better, with aid from abroad. The Germans sought to quash any hope at source. 

They had been experiencing a fairly intense period - Jean Roux eager to press home the advantage gained when they’d stumbled upon a cache of explosives on one derailed freight train. They’d been bloody lucky that it hadn’t blown them all sky high but he had dismissed their shock and relief. 

“This is why I am the best, never damage the cargo!” he‘d boomed. 

Helena had smiled, admiring his confidence and unerring ability to bring the group back on track. She had bided her time, both she and Serge working themselves into gradually earning the trust of the resistance in the area. After that particular day, she had approached Jean Roux as he sat alone by the riverside. He acknowledged her presence by passing her one of his boots to clean.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a beautiful woman’s company?” 

“Certainly not to clean your boots, old man,” she quipped, throwing it back at his side.

“Old man!” He laughed, “and with that lovely compliment I imagine you want something from me, am I correct Helena?”

“It's what I,” she hitches a bruised thumb in Serges direction, “or rather, we, can give to you.”

His hands stilled, and she recognised calculation in his eyes. 

“Go on.”

“We’ve been with your group for weeks now, and I'm under no illusion that you trust us, not yet, anyhow”

“Of course I don't,” and she cocks her head in a way that she knows must infuriate, because he grunts, “Out with it then”

“Winter will be upon us soon, we wish to prove our worth and earn that trust...stay with you.”

She proceeded to fill him in further on their background, their expertise and knowledge, and how they could be utilised better. Jean Roux placed a boot down, running a finger and thumb along his overgrown moustache.

“You withheld information.” His voice was suddenly low and neutral, and Helena wondered if she’d miscalculated. 

“Self preservation,” she stated, “Do you always reveal your hand first time, Jean?” 

After a long moment he threw the previously rejected dirty boot back at her and retrieved the thinly rolled cigarette perched behind his ear. As he lit it, Helena rolled her eyes and leant across to pick up a cloth. 

“Ok, keep talking,” He said.

The following day Jean had taken Helena with him on a scouting mission to a provincial railyard, where he had a longstanding ally in the yard master. It stored an engine very similar to one due to pass through the following week, and they examined it to aid their plan of attack. Jean Roux took great care to teach Helena, but she didn’t get close to handling explosives for a good few weeks. She and Serge demonstrated their bravery and relevant knowledge to disable a Panzer tank that patrolled the area at night, while it’s occupants answered a call of nature in the woods. She and Serge had arrived at an unspoken understanding, Helena assumed the more vociferous role, while he built tentative friendships around campfires and trench digging duties. It works well, and she quickly gained standing with her intelligence and humour. Helena loathed to play the simpering female so was relieved and grateful that Jean Roux’s leadership held no time for tradition. 

 

Presently, her first lead job was looming, and they were leaving this farmhouse refuge to relocate closer to the target by the rural town of Saulieu, deep in a huge area of mixed woodland and farmland. The two resistance fighters who accompanied them were young but experienced and trusted aides of Jean’s - to give the mission the best chance of success and no doubt report back to their leader. The terrain was an endless sea of greens and browns, so the ability to pick out small, significant landmarks was essential. They found a stream in the forest and followed it’s steady trickle down to a small valley, through which ran a not much used but significant rail track. It carried huge quantities of timber out to the towns and cities, used for rebuilding and refuelling. 

That night they take refuge in a disused signal box, amongst stacked wooden boxes and abandoned tools. Helena and Serge, having taken first watch, are now settled down for the night while their companions patrol the surrounds. Helena shifts, restless.

“Cold tonight…” Serge whispers, a not unwelcome hint at mischief in his voice.

“It is, and what do you suggest we do about that?” 

Rolling on to his side, he murmurs, “Get closer,” 

Pale moonlight streams across his face through a dirt streaked window, and it strikes Helena that he appear older. His neat moustache now merges into an untidy short beard and his eyes betray a new world weariness.

The old spark between them occasionally ignites, and something stirs in her now. She lifts her blanket and when Serge does the same she buries her face into his neck. His arms tighten around her, the scent of pine and soil pervades her senses and she kisses the skin beneath her lips. They fumble in the semi-darkness, hurried and insistent, but tender all the same. Soon, the cool night air is a welcome respite and, having feared she would gain no sleep at all, Helena finds it much easier to come by.

 

The following night brings no such ease. She sits with her legs dangling from a high haystack, picking at the immovable dark substance beneath her fingernails. The rough blanket about her shoulders was dropped there moments earlier by an ally who had since left her alone. The day's events pour continuously through her stricken mind, but always it returns to one moment - her decision to trust, a misjudgement, and a betrayal by her own body that has cost dearly.

Three separate fuses, two set, and a train approaching from the distance - when Helena was overcome with a sudden nausea, her gut lurching and bile invading her palette. Doubled over, gasping, wire dangling from her hand, she was inert. Daniel, the youngest of their French comrades, had scampered to her position,

“Quickly, it comes!”

She'd thrust the fuse wire into his sweating palm, her other hand flying to her mouth as the cold sweat of sickness rose once more. Stumbling past branches that flicked at her face, Helena managed to drop to her knees behind a bush, spewing liquid onto the forest floor. She became vaguely aware of a hand at her back and Daniels breathless hushed tones.

“It's ok, I've set it.”

Her natural instinct yelled at her to check, double check again but the monotonous chug of the approaching engine forced her hand. 

“You pulled it taut?” She gasped out, met with a hesitant affirmation that she'd failed to recognise at the time.

Fate decreed that the fuse in question spluttered and died halfway along its journey, and against protocol Serge stumbled from his spot across the clearing. Running low alongside the coasting train, he veered off at the last minute, intending to re-ignite the fuse. Daniel had issued a strangled cry, Helena startled and looked up from her position to witness Serge’s foolhardiness firsthand. He’d barely reached his target when two simultaneous explosions burst forth to damage and de-rail, a newly unanticipated trajectory of debris catching him in the blast. When they reached him, Helena bit down on her hand to stifle her fear, frustration, and further nausea. Serge was trapped beneath the door or a carriage, his face pale, eyes glassy. 

“Get it off him, now,”

Daniel and Tomas were already at it, while Helena hurriedly ripped at her clothing, forewarned by a slow trickle of blood to the grass below.

“Shit,” 

Tomas gave her a pitying look before hoisting the door up with Daniel, resting on the grass. They both looked away and pulled their guns forward from their behind their backs, scanning the scene for problems.

A was angled out below Serge’s knee, and his thigh had suffered a deep, ugly gash.

“Helena,” Serge was looking for her without truly seeing, “Helena…”

“We’ll get you fixed up, let us do this,” 

She busied herself knotting the jagged cloth tightly to the top of his leg, then felt a hand claw at hers.

“No use...” Serge sucked in a sharp breath, face almost as pale as the teeth biting down on his own lip, “Fuck.” 

Helena busied herself in the art of refusing to accept the evidence of her own eyes, they needed to get him to a doctor that was all. They were stopped by the low murmur of soft desperate cries from the direction of the train. Poorly dressed old men, women and children, seemingly starved of light and nutrition were stumbling into eyesight.

“It seems our intelligence was incorrect - passengers,” Tomas growled, before the sound of harsh Germanic voices drifting from across the tracks ad him dragging Daniel back to where Serge begged with Helena.

“Please.” 

His voice had a quality that begged no refusal. The pallor of death tinged his skin, and Helena stifled a sob. She pushed herself up, hooking her hands into his armpits from behind.

She hissed, “This is my fault. Help me move him, now!”

 

Serge passed out before they'd reached the treeline, but by some small mercy they weren't seen or followed and within two miles a church had appeared on the horizon. The priest there had aided them, but not an hour after stumbling into the cool stone-walled vestry, Serge’s pulse had ebbed to a stuttering stop. 

Now, wrapped against cold she can't seem to shake, Helena relives their steps, finding no other conclusion than to lay the blame at her own door. Sleep eventually comes through sheer exhaustion, and she flops down onto her makeshift bed of straw. Come morning, when she lurches up, nauseous once more, she feared her miscalculations went beyond her trust in the attention to detail of a young resistance fighter. 

\------

**_September 1942_ **

Myka hurriedly touched a light dusting of powder to dull her ruddy cheeks, sighing in frustration at having to remain late completing an unnecessary filing task at the Embassy. She was sure her supervisor felt the need to punish her long unexplained, yet endorsed, absences. Now she was running late. 

Skipping down the creaking stairway, hands pressing against peeling wallpaper, she came to a sudden halt five steps from the foot. Mrs Cooper, upright and inquisitive, was at the open doorway, her gushing tone almost comical.

“I do so admire girls who are serving their country while the men are away,” 

“Oh, but Mrs Cooper, where would we be without women such as yourself looking after our girls?” 

Detecting the tease in Helena’s voice, a smile tugged at Myka’s cheeks and she dipped her head as she descended the remaining steps. The smooth lines of Helena’s uniform were framed by the low evening sun, and her face was in semi shade, a few strands of hair coming loose from where she'd removed the cap in her hand. Helena's eyes flitted upwards and, but for the briefest of moments, betrayed nothing beyond the delight of seeing a friend. 

“Ah, there you are!” She winked at Mrs Cooper, who was utterly charmed, “I promised our friends that I would collect Myka, us girls must stick together!” 

“Eminently sensible, Miss Wells. My, you will both turn some heads at that dance,” 

“I rather think Myka will, Mrs Cooper. Come, we mustn't be late!”

Removed from the training camps, this Helena was so relaxed and beguiling. Myka had seen glimpses of this more carefree side, the side that had succumbed to temptation under cover of the garden at Inverie. 

“You wore a uniform,” Myka observed, breaking the easy silence as they strolled through the humming streets.

“I have discovered that wearing it, I am less likely to attract unwanted attention,”

“You look-”

Helena threw her an unreadable sidelong glance but says nothing, and Myka regrets those two simple words. Moments later Helena clears her throat.

She says, quietly, “I'm here against my better judgement,”

“Why do you say that?”

A sigh, “Reasons enough to know I'm a fool,” 

Myka doesn't know how to respond, what to feel. Only that- tonight she wants the playful Helena who arrived at her doorstep. She wants to not dwell on ill-advised kisses and weighted conversations, and so she wilfully ignores Helena’s sudden melancholy by linking her arm and picking up the pace.

“Come on! We are keeping Wolly, Lizzie and Leena waiting!” 

Helena stiffens momentarily, but then bumps Myka’s shoulder with a breathy chuckle,  
“We mustn't do that, and I've been so looking forward to visiting this club…”

They slip into simple chatter and a short, rowdy bus ride later arrive at the club. It's narrow entrance down black painted steps could easily be missed were it not for a queue snaking up onto the pavement. Against Myka’s embarrassed protest, Helena squeezes them in behind their friends with a disarmingly apologetic smile and promise of a dance to the very amenable G.I.s behind. 

Wolly tips his cap at them with a grin, “We did wonder if you were lost...” 

“No fear of that,” Helena glances at the sign dangling above, red paint peeling from it’s ragged edges, “Charles and I came here a number of times when it was a restaurant. He knows the brothers who run it.”

As the night develops, it is relaxed, easy and enjoyable. The club opened it’s doors to a plethora of people from Europe, the Commonwealth, and the newly arriving Americans. With them came new music, dancing, and the charm to pull it off. Leena is at ease more than Myka has ever known her to be, she is also in great demand on the dancefloor. Wolly graciously dances with each of them, and Helena keeps her promise to the G.I.s with good humour and style. The basement walls sweat, it is dark, vibrant, and there’s a buzz of freedom in the air. It's a bubble in which people can laugh and enjoy each other's company with no unspoken agreement other than to live in the moment. 

Spying Lizzie dragging a female friend into the centre of swirling action, Myka feels emboldened by adrenaline. She turns to Helena who is alongside her, nursing a cooling drink having already removed her jacket and messily bunched her shirt sleeves up to the crook of her arms.

“You owe me a dance, English,”

“I do?”

“Yes, Helena. Dance with me.” 

Myka steps into the undulating crowd just as the resident trio strikes up a crowd pleaser, less frantic than the exhausting jitterbug they've been enjoying from the sidelines. She decides to grab Helena’s fingers, tugging her along, before turning when Helena’s light touch moves into place at her waist. Myka’s eyes raise at Helena’s presumption, but allows her hand to be taken and curves her own around Helena’s shoulder. They are not the only females dancing together. Numbers of male partners are comparatively low, but Myka feels sure there are others engaging in public touches they would not dare to elsewhere.

She feels a heightened awareness; of Helena's warm palm against her own, of the pressure slim fingers exert at her waist as they spin, of Helena’s breathing - felt not through the exhale of air from her mouth, but the steady rhythm of her chest rising and falling against Myka’s body. They are close, and Myka leans in closer to Helena’s ear, 

“I love it here!”

“Once could almost forget there is a war on,” 

“Or a world outside of this,”

“ _This_ isn't real, Myka,”

Myka deflates. 

“No, I suppose not,” 

Then Helena's hands tighten their grip.

“I am still in London tomorrow. Perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to meet for afternoon tea?” 

“Sounds lovely,” Myka hesitates, “Wolly...Lizzie…?”

“I want you all to myself, Myka...we've not properly caught up, what with all this fun,” Helena teases, “Besides, my allowance will only stretch so far, darling.”

They dance a while, silently enjoying this moment hemmed in beneath the low stone ceiling and bustling bodies. When they find themselves naturally skirting around the edge, they exchange mild flirtations with eager soldiers, until Myka feels a tap on her shoulder. She stares at the dark haired airman who she finds smiling at her with deliberately boyish charm. The guilt of shame colours her face as she's put in mind of Pete - who she has not thought of in almost a year. Helena’s hand loosens from her waist, and she places Myka’s into that of the now grinning airman. 

“Take good care of her, Flight Lieutenant,” 

“Oh, but..” 

Myka feels a fumbling grip at her hand and with an enthusiastic pull at her waist she is whisked away, Helena disappearing in a blur. 

She enjoys his company in the end. They chuckle over similarities and differences between their native states, and he displays no expectations of her company.

“You remind me of my best friend from home,” she says.

“All good I hope, ma'am?”

“Very. Though I’m a poor friend, I don’t know where he is.”

“Hey, it’s hard to keep up out here - what with the Nazis being a pain in the ass n’all,” 

Despite allowing this dance partner to lighten her mood, much as Pete would have done, Myka files away the intent to discover where the man himself is stationed. When they are interrupted by the discordant notes of the band winding down for a break, she takes the opportunity to excuse herself. Searching for her friends, she spies Helena in conversation at the bar. 

A tall woman is leant in too close, Helena seemingly unconcerned and silently laughing at a comment hidden behind the woman's fingers. Myka looks away. Only for a moment. When she glances back, Helena is looking straight at her, eyes mischievous, smile bright. She offers a brief goodbye to the woman and pushes away from the bar towards Myka, who feels suddenly, unreasonably, irritated. 

“I think it's high time you were returned safely to the care of your landlady, wouldn't you say?”

“I'm not a child, Helena.” 

Helena smiles knowingly.

“No, you are most certainly not that,” she brushes Myka's elbow with a finger, “nevertheless, I would see you home safely.”

The five companions retrieve crumpled coats from a makeshift cloakroom, before spilling out into damp night air. There's a light rain falling, and Myka is vividly thrown back to childhood, when a downpour would relieve the land from arid spells. Instinctively, she rushes out onto slippery cobbles, arms out wide, face lifted into the steady flow of raindrops, breathing in now cooled air. Lizzie yelps, then joins in.

“Who are you and what have you done with _our_ Myka Bering?!” 

Myka finds herself truly giddy, and she link arms with Lizzie. They splash in slowly forming puddles as they walk to where the last buses of the night await, ready to return them to reality. There's a cough behind them, and looking over her shoulder Myka spies Wolly holding his coat over both himself and Helena. Helena unhappily clutches the material’s edge, appearing to shiver in the rain, but her eyes are soft and full of amusement - she had been watching them, Myka feels sure of it. Turning to face front again, she wonders what tomorrow will bring and stretches out her long legs, Lizzie breathlessly protests, but laughs and keeps up nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of the new clubs that opened up during wartime - focussed on music from across the pond, and providing release from everyday tension and stress:
> 
> \- Red Cross Rainbow Club ‘Ranbow Corner’ opened in Nov 1942 as a home from home for US service personnel. Open day and night it provided, pool, soda, American comforts by day and music and entertainment by night.  
> \- Bouillabaisse Club - favoured by west indian and black american GIs.  
> \- The Feldman Swing Club live music since October 1942. Brothers rented the space and it became a mecca for jazz, swing and bebop artists.


End file.
